


1933 or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Radio

by FJF23



Category: Game Grumps, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 1930's AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Antisemitism, Arin would have thrived tbh, Bi-Curiosity, Bisexuality, F/M, Golden Age of Animation, Golden Age of Radio, Great Depression, M/M, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Period-Typical Racism, Slow Burn, everyone was an asshole in the 30s, internalized oppression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-03-02 13:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13319121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FJF23/pseuds/FJF23
Summary: The year is 1933, the United States is stricken with a seemingly endless depression. The stock market's crash affects every aspect of daily life. Billions of dollars have been lost, countless hardworking Americans have been laid off and contaminated with extreme poverty. Many people live from paycheck to paycheck, unable to provide necessities for themselves and their families.Spending money on entertainment is out of the question for most. So a very inexpensive media outlet arose: Radio. Some programs gained large and loyal followings, while others struggled to gain traction considering the immense numbers of competitive shows.Arin Hanson has built a small but respectable show with his co-host Jon. But when Jon leaves the program it's up to Arin to save his life's work from tanking.





	1. The Parting of the Ways

Arin rhythmically hammers away at his bicycle pedals, standing as he rides in order to pick up his speed. One hand clenching the chipped paint of the handlebar, the other attempting to keep his hat securely in place atop his sweaty head. The unforgiving brightness of the sun shines bright overhead and off the bustling city street. He is sandwiched between two planes of bright hot energy, it is suffocating. Despite this trek to work being routine, today has been, to put it mildly, difficult. How could it be his fault if his water had been shut off, again? Simply because his payment was.... slightly delayed.  

The radio station, now only a few blocks further, looms tall in the sunny California sky. It glares down at him with disdain. Examining him. Judging him for being late.  Coming to rushed conclusions based upon surface evidence.

What an asshole.

At last arriving at the station, Arin ungracefully throws his bicycle into the unkempt grass next to the main entrance and bursts through the front double-doors. The receptionist seems completely unfazed by the commotion, cigarette clutched between her index and middle finger, obviously enamored with a bird perched upon the windowsill, as she absentmindedly twirled her free hand through the short bob of curly hair atop her head: "Mr. Hanson, good morning sir."

"Save it, Holly, do I have time to wait for the lift?" Arin dismisses her, dancing between the stairwell and the notoriously slow elevator.

Tearing her eyes from the window in order to read the wall's clock. She moves at an agonizingly slow pace, shaking her head in a way Arin perceived to mean: 'No way in hell'.

"Well golly, I'm in a slam," Arin mocks no one in particular, sprinting towards the stairwell, "Thanks, dollface," Arin politely lifts his hat (and NO it ain't a m'lady type deal, people were just classy as fuck back then) to Holly and barges up the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time.

"I said don't fucking call me dollface!" He hears the receptionist yell after him. Arin just shakes his head and chuckles as he runs faster than he thought possible. Three flights go by in a haze of sweat, panting and blurry stairs. Reaching the third-floor landing he busts through the door and beholds the sight of Jon sitting alone in the recording booth. His co-star stares bug-eyed through the large glass window at Arin, he would surely be in for an ear-full later. As quickly and quietly as he could manage, Arin enters the sound-dampened room. Jon apparently had been improvising for time.

"And that's when Jacques pecked the hat, right off my head, just boop! Right off, hahah" Jon says in a chipper tone while chuckling at his own quip, but the daggers he shoots Arin with his eyes could be recognized as nothing other than malicious, "And it seems like my punctual partner has joined me at last," Jon looks to Arin expectantly.

"That's right Los Angeles, here with you as always it's Arin 'the Ego' Hanson-"

"And Jon 'the Tron' Jafari. Coming at you with the finest radio show this side of Death Valley: The Awesome Program."

The rest of the program runs relatively smoothly. They talk about the weather, their personal lives, current events, whatever came to mind until their time-slot comes to a conclusion. After the co-hosts complete today's set, they walk together down the bustling streets of Los Angeles. Businessmen carrying briefcases march along, newsies stand at corners shouting today's headline at passersby. Women, usually in groups of two or three, saunter down the sidewalk allowing their skirts to sway in the summer breeze. Litter permeates the gutter, while bluebirds grace the citizens with today’s canorous melody.

The two walk side-by-side, Arin attends his bike, and Jon kicks at stray pebbles, dukes firmly planted within his pants’ pockets. The pair in complete silence. Arin figured Jon would be pissed, but this is plain weird. Even in a sour mood, Jon always seemed eager to talk about what was upsetting him. Arin is used to laughing, crying, yelling even. But silence… that is downright unheard of. The pair walk for maybe three blocks before Jon finally breaks the silence: 

"Listen Arin, real talk, about earlier," Jon begins but is cut-off by his counterpart.

"I know, I know," Arin sighs rubbing a hand down his face, "I really am sorry, man. It’s just my water got turned off and I had to go and get that all squared away. Plus I’ve been really stressed and upset about… about all this Suzy stuff.” The weight of sterling silver against his chest grow more noticeable, heavier even. “And I know it isn’t fair to you, or to the show, or to our listeners, but I truly am sorry."

There is a moment of silence. Arin’s words hang heavy in the air between the friends, "well, I'm sorry too," Jon stops walking, and grabs Arin by the elbow, forcing him to stop as well. 

“What do you mean, you’re sorry too," Arin’s expression falls as a grim look crosses his Jon’s face. 

“Arin I can’t do The Awesome Program anymore.” 

Arin feels his heart stop cold in his chest, his fingers tingle, and he has to blink to keep from staring at his friend, “wha-w-what do you mean, you can’t do the program anymore? It’s our show,” Arin pleads.

“I know, I know,” Jon takes off his hat, straightens out his shaggy dark brown head of hair and claps Arin on the shoulder, “I wanted to tell you earlier, but you were late to the show, and…” Jon trails off looking to the dirty sidewalk, instead of into Arin’s hurt eyes, “I got family in The Big Apple, and what with the stock market crash… they really need another set of working hands.”

The crowd winds their way around the duo as they stand in silence. Arin holding firmly to his bicycle handles, Jon looking at the ground. Time seems to collapse in upon them, as Arin can hear nothing but a faint ringing in his ears. People move about in what can only be described as half-time. He can't feel his fingers.

“Well, it certainly won’t be The Awesome Program without you pally,” Arin hears himself say, brain catching up to his mouth. Jon finally looks at him.

He pulls Arin in for a hug as he chuckles with relief, “So you aren’t mad?” Jon asks, pulling away to look at Arin once more.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Arin admits as the two resumed their stroll once more, “I definitely dig the importance of family, and I sure as hell can’t fault you for doing what’s right.” 

“I am so glad to hear you say that. Because, honestly, with The Awesome Program under my belt, I’m sure I’ll find my place out there. It's all thanks to you… Will, will you be okay? I mean, doing the show alone?”

And the penny drops, and Arin catches his meaning. What would the listeners think of Jon’s sudden absence from the program? To save face, Jon certainly would not want the fact that his family was so financially fucked that Jon was unable to remain in Los Angeles broadcasted on the show. 

“I guess… I guess I’ll have to make do,” Arin concludes, only half-believing his own statement.

Jon sullenly nods, “Well, this is my street,” he says pointing behind Arin. 

“Will I ever see you again?”

“Well that all depends on this damned economy, and uhh, my train blows tonight.” A brief and heavy pause impregnates the air between them, “ I’m real sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but… I wanted the show to be unaffected by this, as much as possible, at least.”

Arin nods, looking down Jon’s street to the row of run-down apartment buildings, “Well, once you get settled out there give me a ring on the horn, or write me. Just, don’t you forget about me. Alright?” 

“How could I forget that ugly mug of yours,” Jon jokes, but neither of them laugh. This all feels so final, so… strange.

“Well, you stay out of trouble now, and give that city hell,” Arin smiles as he begins to walk away from Jon, his partner.

“Arin!” Jon calls. His year-long co-host and closest friend looks over his shoulder, “You’ll always be… ma little grep.”

Arin holds back a tear and continues walking down the sidewalk. Refusing to look back.


	2. Those Dirty Spinnakers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed  
> to be.”  
> ― Douglas Adams, The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul (1988)

Three days came and went since Jon left, three days Arin was left alone to host a radio program, by himself. Alone, with no one else. Arin contacts the station manager, not trusting his ability to improvise for all that time, who subsequently allows Arin to temporarily change The Awesome Program into a music show. It breaks his heart to see something he and Jon built from the ground up simply disappear, but it would be downright unfair to the listeners to feed them a bunch of bullshit. Arin would lazily flip a platter on, usually some swing or jazz, and doodle. Granted, he would intermediately update the listeners on local news and weather conditions, but he mostly let the music play. On one especially long day, he managed to create a flipbook which resulted in a two-second walk cycle of a remarkably busty dame. He took it home and set the cartoon on the mantle. It is his pride and joy. It also was the most animated-related project Arin had worked on in years, and that fact put a weight on his heart. Today, however, he chooses to rifle through the daily paper, in a desperate attempt to locate a new partner. He imagines he might spot a name, or a face, and instinctively feel as if that were the person meant to be the next Jon. Unfortunately, he has no insight into who is bad, who is good, or who is entertaining. It seems as though this search will require much more work than he had convinced himself it would. Arin very quickly grew frustrated with his current situation. So, after his third solo set of The Awesome Program, if it could even be called that anymore, Arin sets off into the city with a mission. He would search every dive, every speakeasy, every theater until he found a suitable replacement for Jon. The trouble is, Arin’s stomach was beginning to devour itself and a soup kitchen a few blocks ahead is just torturing him with the promise of a hot meal. But he can not afford to waste any time, the future... of the program depends… Fuck it. He will start his tireless journey, after a quick meal. 

Arin queues behind some other gentlemen. All of which continue to speak amongst themselves, paying Arin no mind. Some solemn tones, some jovial and downright giddy fill the summer air. This place must be particularly popular ‘round here, as the line winds around the street’s corner, out the kitchen’s open doors. Whatever anxieties Arin had about a long wait, is quickly resolved when within five minutes he is already within the establishment, the line moving at an inexplicably fast pace. Rows and rows of wooden benches accompanied by tables sit upon the cracked tile floor. The air shifts, not only to a hotter temperature, or to a sweeter scent, but the aura seems lighter, and good-hearted. Laughter rings throughout the hall, as worries are forgotten, and social status, race, and religion all melt away into meaninglessness. People simply enjoying each other without the need for worry or unease. Turning his attention back to the line, Arin embarrassedly moves to the front, being next and keeping the rest of the line waiting.

At the head of the line, Arin comes face to face with two handsome looking women. The elder of the two has her hair messily held up in a bun. Gray kisses her black frizzy hair around her temples, and she sports a stained apron. She has some dirt smudged on her nose and looks like she could kill Arin without fluttering one of her enormous brown shutters. 

She ladles the soup into a bowl held by the other women. She is visibly younger than her co-worker, and wears her long black hair down, tucked behind an ear. She sports a flowered dress that looks worn but clean. 

“Thank you, kind ladies,” Arin says as the older dame pours spoonful after spoonful into his bowl, “how much will that be?” Arin asks reaching for his pocket.

The younger girl chuckles and the workers look at each other as if to non-verbally communicate: ‘what an idiot’. Regardless, she holds the bowl of soup out to Arin, “mister, we don't do this for the dough.”

“Please,” Arin rummages through his wallet and holds a dollar out for her anyway, “I would like to make a donation then.”

She smiles and takes the dollar in exchange for the bowl, “there's bread and spoons over there,” she points to the far side of the mess hall where sure enough Arin finds some rolls and silverware.  
He sits alone and begins to consume the, surprisingly tasty, cabbage soup. His thoughts drift to his rising desperation to find a new co-host. Sitting in that little studio, listening to the same three records day in and day out, drove him crazier than a cuckoo clock. If by the end of the week he still failed to find a suitable partner, he might as well jump in a river. It would certainly be juicier than the goddamn-bluegrass-bullshit he was being subjected to on a daily basis. A burst of laughter coming from behind him, interrupts his train of thought. He turns around in his seat to see a group of patrons huddled around a tall man, obviously entertaining the minute crowd he managed to gather. Curious, Arin cranes his neck and sits up taller in his seat in an attempt to catch a glimpse of what was so apparently amusing. 

"And that's when I said, we don't need any of those dirty Spinnakers in THIS establishment!" Obviously delivering the punch line to a highly amusing story, the tall man smiles; seemingly proud of the amusement he causes the patrons. Many of the listeners either throw their heads back with laughter or bend over holding their stomachs, tears running down rosy cheeks. As the man surveys the damage he had done, his eyes wander to where Arin sits. The two make brief eye contact. The tall man's smile softens as he laid eyes on Arin, who quickly turns back to his bowl of soup, embarrassed that he was caught eavesdropping. He quickly slurps up the rest of his soup and leaves the establishment. He is unable to locate the tall and funny man from before, however, the two women serving soup both bid him a kindly farewell, and Arin is back to the street, searching for his next co-host.


	3. Sweet as Apple Pie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Love makes you want to be a better man—right, right. But maybe love, real love, also gives you permission to just be the man you are.”   
> ― Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl (2012))

Arin jolts back to reality when a pile of papers slams onto his desk.   
"Here are your keyframes, Hanson." Matt offhandedly says around the cigarette lazily hanging out of his mouth, not caring to look Arin in the face. Arin glares at the retreating back of the character animator, a cloud of exhaled nicotine surrounding his head.

"Shit Arin, what'd you do to get Kowalewski so peeved," glancing over his shoulder, he notices his neighboring animator had apparently noticed the slightly rude behavior of their co-worker.

Arin weaves a hand through his short hair and shakes his head, "Oh, well, you know..."

Arin tries to sort the new pile of drawings which were haphazardly tossed onto his desk from the frames he had yet to complete. Arin hoped his neighbor would drop it there, but his reluctance to talk about the topic at hand only encourages the nosey man next to him.

"No, come on. What's going on? I don't want to see another hard-working member of this team be lost because of something totally avoidable," his co-worker explains, coming over to Arin's workspace, he slightly rests his ass against the side of Arin’s desk and crosses his arms, looking determined to get what he wanted.

"Alright, but Ross, you can't tell other people. Okay?"

His co-worker's blue shutters light up as if he’d been promised a fireworks display, "I'm all ears."

Arin glances around the office space before pulling some sketches out of a bottom drawer. He slides them, over to Ross, Arin thinks this looks like a scene out of a noir moving-picture "I never wanted to be an inbetweener, I mean, who fucking would? I'm going crazy drawing frame after frame of shit I don't care about! I wanna create characters, and far away lands, and adventures to fill those far away lands with," Ross nods, his limp brown hair bouncing with the motion. He obviously is concentrating more on Arin's drawings than his words. Arin continues nonetheless, "So, I've been finishing my frames faster and faster every day, so that I can work on my own stuff,” Arin pauses, unsure how Ross would react, “But, Kowalewski caught me. Said he'd go straight to the Art Director or some other jackass if I didn't stop." Arin exhales, exasperated, but relieved to have finally shared his little sin with someone other than Suzy.

Ross sets Arin’s sketches down on the desk, "You wanna know what I think?" Arin nods, waiting for O'Donovan to continue, "I say take them to the Art Director yourself. Don't let him get you in trouble, for something this good! Give them a reason to give you a goddamn promotion, because, Arin," he pauses and taps the sketches with an index finger, "This stuff is good."

Arin beams, picking up his sketches and reviewing the characters he, himself designed and the landscapes he was trying to perfect, "Do you really mean that?"

"I don't have a motive to sabotage you... that I can think of right now," Arin chuckles at that, putting his sketches in his briefcase. Perhaps tonight he could clean up some fine details and make an impression with some higher-ups.

"Alright," Arin smiles "Tomorrow, I'll walk into that office and present my work,"

"There ya go!" Ross pats Arin's shoulder and moves towards his own desk, "But I'd finish those required frames first or Kowalewski's gonna chop your balls off."

...

Arin arrives home to the smell of something burning. Great. He opens the door, expecting a massacre, but finding the place, oddly, normal? He enters the apartment further, closing the door. He ventures into the living room, where he finds his wife. Her long hair thrown over one shoulder. She sits cross-legged on the davenport, causing her calf-length gray dress to bunch up around her thighs. She hunches over a hunk of wax, sculpting it into the likeness of a skull.

"Babe? What the fuck?"

She looks up surprised, "What?" 

"You don't smell that?" Arin skeptically asks, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. Tossing his briefcase onto a nearby chair.

She stops for a moment to inhale through her nose, "shit, the casserole!" She quite literally throws the hunk of wax down and runs into the kitchen, Arin lets out a belly laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

"How could you not smell that?" He asks, following her slowly into their small kitchen. He regards Suzy, holding a charred casserole dish under a tea towel.

"I guess I was so immersed in what I was doing," she shakes her head, setting the pan on the counter. She giggles, discarding the towel, placing it on the counter, "What the fuck is wrong with me?"

Arin only laughs and draws her into a tight embrace, punctuated with a peck on her ebony hair. She pulls away from his arms in order to survey the damage she inadvertently wreaked upon the potato casserole. But he was not done with her yet, as she tries to scrape the burned sections off of the pan and top of the dish, he wraps his arms around her middle. Her back easing against his chest, as he lightly presses kisses to her neck. She smiles but continues to try to remedy her mistake.

"I think it's still edible, I mean, it seems like just the top got really burned," she explains, as Arin desperately tries to get her attention off the casserole and onto him.

"Well, you cooked it, so it'll be delicious: burnt or not."

"You had a swell day didn't you?” she inquires turning around in his arms so the two were now face to face, “You're never in such a sweet mood when you first get home." 

Arin closes the distance between their lips before replying, "It was amazing!" He grabs her hand and leads her back into the living room, careful not to step on her fallen project, "I think I'm gonna show my sketches to the Art Director tomorrow.”

A smile creeps its way onto Suzy’s face, “No way. Really?”

Arin nods, “I was talking about it, with a co-worker earlier today and I’m tired of wasting my time on projects that mean squat to me,” she nods in support of the claim, “I want to create something that might make a difference. Something that’s really got…that’s got-”

“Soul?” 

She always knows what to say. Arin smiles at her, “yeah, something with soul.”

“Well I think this is marvelous, I’ve been saying it for months now, but I’m so happy it's happening nonetheless,” her crooked teeth gleam as she expresses her happiness for him. 

“But look at me rambling on about myself, what were you sculpting?” Arin inquires.

“Oh,” she rolls her green lamps and picks up her discarded project, “It’s going to be the newest addition to the Dust to Dust collection.” She smirks at him. Suzy has always been fascinated by two (at least in Arin’s eyes) polar opposites: the beautiful, and the morbid. But she has a way of combining the two, a strange eye with which she can see and create beauty within death,“This one is going to be a skull with a set of wings behind it,” she explains, setting the piece on the wooden table before the couch, “have you talked to the Woolworth’s manager about the collection yet?”

Arin nods, “Yep I presented the necklaces and rings just how you told me to,” he sits up straighter in his seat, puffing out his chest and adopting the best salesman voice he can muster, “Sir, have I got the perfect deal for you! It’s called: Dust to Dust, the visionary line of mourning jewelry that people are simply dying to own! I can fix you up with what ya need! Sterling silver? We got it! Masterfully handcrafted art? We got it! Pieces to remember the tragic passing of those nearest and dearest to you? We got it!” Suzy is having trouble stifling her giggles behind her palms. Taking her enjoyment as a good sign, Arin stands from the couch in order to better demonstrate his salesman persona, quickening the cadence with which he speaks.

“I’m talking one hundred percent of the deals for half the price! Ya know there may be other jewelers out there who might try and swindle a naive store manager like yourself with some fast talk and a turn-a-quick buck, but I like you so here’s what I’m gonna do, I’m gonna sell you one share for the price of two, not a penny less. Can you believe the amount of asinine things I’m saying? Even cookies don’t cost this less!”

“Stop!” Suzy chokes out, between wheezy laughs, “I’m gonna piss myself!”

“So yeah, he seemed rather interested in the idea…” Arin returns to his normal voice and to his seat as if the past thirty seconds did not occur at all, and looks into his spouse’s watery eyes, “I wish you’d take credit for all this work you've done.”

She chuckles, the remnants of her laugh-attack receding now, as this unpleasant subject was apparently rearing its ugly head once again, even though they had been over this, several times now, “Arin, you know why we can’t do that. I’m not supposed to even have independent thought let alone create and sell jewelry,” she shakes her head, looking rather put out, “I don’t like it, but that’s just the way it is right now.”

“Well if it's any consolation,” Arin says, kissing her briefly, “You’re the smartest, most beautiful and driven person I've ever had the pleasure of knowing,” he deepens the kiss, opening his mouth and seeking entrance into hers with his tongue. 

“Arin,” she laughs, pushing his chest away, smiling sadly, “I’m not up for it tonight, I’m really Joed, and-”

“You don't have to do anything,” he interrupts, pushing a hand through her long silky hair, “you can just sit back and relax,” he breathes onto the soft sensitive skin of her neck, “I’ll take care of you,” this gains a sigh from her. He begins ravishingly her neck with kisses, some long and drawn out, some short and sweet. She smiles in appreciation as she lays back, along the length of the sofa, pulling him on top of her. His hands rest on either side of her head while his knees land between hers.

“My,” pretending to be vexed, Suzy adopts a southern-belle sort of voice, “what a predicament we have found ourselves in! Why, if my daddy knew what we was up to-” Arin cuts her off with a kiss. Her hands move to his hair, and he moans into her mouth at the much longed for contact. He feels her smile through the kiss, he responds by cupping her cheek, attempting to bring her closer (if that was even possible). Arin breaks the kiss in order to make a trail down her neck and plant kisses along her collarbone and chest, “Why,” she pants, again using her southern accent, “ain't you just as sweet as apple pie.” Arin’s laughs force him to stop kissing her, his elbows slacken from the humor and he rests his head on her chest to let the chuckles pass. Her long fingernails caress his scalp while she laughs along, her chest rises and falls with her own chuckles.

“Babe, you gotta stop with that southern accent,” he recovers from his case of the giggles, “it's too goddamn funny,“ Arin slides a hand up her leg to grab the meat of her thigh. Her breath hitches, “I can't focus.”

“Well,” she fans herself with her hand and bats her eyelashes in quick succession, “I’m as nervous as a long-tail cat in a room full of rocking chairs,” she laughs at her own disobedience which turns into a moan as Arin gropes her through her underwear. 

Arin smirks up at her, he knows her like the back of his hand by now. Knows what she likes, and knows her sweet spots almost instinctively at this point. He slinks back along her legs, pushing her dress up over her stomach. She perfectly contours from hips to waist, and it drives him insane, how incredible she is. He could not resist kissing all along her abdomen. He wants her to feel his absolute admiration for every part of her. 

And she does. 

She writhes under him whether, from pleasure or anticipation, he does not know, but she seems to be enjoying herself either way. When Arin is finally planting kisses right below her bellybutton, from seemingly nowhere he gets an idea. He looks up at her through his eyelashes, and she looks down to him.

“Are you ready my dear?”

“Yes, Arin. Come on,” she impatiently pleads.

He smiles and lowers his head back down to her stomach, and proceeds to blow the biggest raspberry he can muster. She throws her head back as high-pitched laughs escape that beautiful throat. She screws her eyes shut in fits of giggles. Seeing his opportunity, Arin works his hand into her panties and lightly fingers her, testing the waters. She sighs with relief, a spare chuckle to punctuate it. Taking that as the go-ahead, Arin slides her undergarments off, holds the elastic hem between his thumbs, and shoots the garment across the room, receiving more laughs from his spouse. But her laughter all but ceases when Arin lowers his head and begins to work his tongue up the length of her pussy. She lets out a moan from deep within the back of her throat, “oh shit, Arin.”

Encouraged, he keeps swiping his tongue along her, purposefully avoiding her sweet spot, teasing her. She is so responsive, moving her pelvis towards her husband, begging for more. Arin lays his paws on her hips, holding her still with a mischievous grin. Her breathy moans become louder and more labored as he begins to fuck her with his tongue. Suzy’s hands fly to his hair, urging Arin to continue, and he happily obliges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some research on 30’s animation styles and processes for this chapter, and it is beyond interesting. I think the mind set and the passion were very similar to the movement of animators on YouTube in that a new medium for expressing drawing and releasing it to a large audience was created. If you watch cartoons made by Fleischer studios, you can really tell the artists were totally exploring how far their freedoms could go. It’s very entertaining and interesting.


	4. Follow the Guiding Light of the North Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Money is the world’s curse.   
>  May the Lord smite me with it.   
> And may I never recover.”  
>  — Reb Tevye, Fiddler on the Roof (1971)

Arin nervously looks up and down the street, irrationally thinking a copper may catch on to what he was planning.  
But that is absurd, right?  
Right. 

Entering Vern's Barber Shop, Arin immediately is hit by the strong smell of shave cream and the sight of a neat row of men getting either; faces shaven or hair trims. Some sporting half gone foamy beards, some reading the daily paper. None take notice to him. As he walks through the thin establishment, Arin spots the business owner near the back, minding the register. Trying to look as casual as possible. Arin strolls up to the counter, resting his elbows of the sleek wooden finish. 

"Mr. Shaw what a pleasure to see you on this fine afternoon."

"Sorry, but do I know you?" The store-keep asks, pushing his glasses closer to his blinkers in order to better examine the man before him.

"Why no, you don't. But I know of a certain..." Arin leans in closer, and Vernon mimics the motion as Arin whispers: "Sacred Chalice."

Vernon snaps his head back and looks hurriedly around the shop, but evidently, no one heard them. The barber exhales, releasing the tension that caused his muscles to seize up. Looking back at Arin, Vernon replies, "Come on," as he leads Arin to the back of the shop, separated by a thick velvet curtain. Before Arin advances through the room, Vernon stops him, a meathook clamped firmly around the arm of Arin’s white button down, "Back of the room, down the stairs, can't miss it. Oh, and don't tell your friends. Too many damn people know about this place," he shakes his head retreating back to the register.

Entering the back room, Arin quickly spots a black spiral staircase in the far corner. After weaving through the labyrinth of boxes and crates filled with what he could only assume were barber supplies (whatever that entailed), Arin finally arrives at the Gin Mill’s entrance. As he descends the stairs, the stale scent of hard liquor, cigars, and sweat assaults Arin's nose. Although these smells were far from foreign, he nonetheless did not enjoy it. The staircase lands near the back of the establishment, he looks out to a fairly expansive array of circular tabletops with wooden chairs accompanying them. By the looks of it, the joint is dead right now, then again, Arin knew no one who made a habit of drinking at two in the afternoon, especially since this prohibition garbage began. The sole patron seeming to be asleep, nuzzling a brown bottle to his haggard face. The most surprising feature of the establishment was the extensive dance floor and stage. The floor was shiny with lacquer, it was obviously frequently tended to. The stage had big beautiful lights hanging high above it, pointed straight at key points on the stage. Obviously a certain act frequented the bar. 

The barkeep stands behind the wooden fortress guarding the booze from patrons. Rows and rows of it sat on the shelves around him. Some obviously homemade hootch, seeing as the elixirs are housed in mason jars, rather than FDA regulation packaging. Arin tries not to imagine what the bathtub gin might taste like, and doubts that it is even drinkable. Some name brand liquor which survived the purge adorn the shelves as well. The man behind the counter seems to be taking stock of the register, and is considerably bored doing so, his blue eyes look dull staring down at the piles of currency. Light hues of gray touch the dark hair upon his head, and through his friendly mutton chops. Arin though the tender's facial hair silly, but thought better to mention it. The barkeep's mouth forms a stern, thin line, However, as Arin approaches the older gent lets a smile grace his face.

"Good afternoon sir, care for a drink?" The bartender asks, abandoning his task in favor of collecting a glass from under the bar-top. The monotone quality to his voice surprises Arin, it certainly did not match the grin which had lept upon lips.

"Thank you for your hospitality, but I'm afraid I'm not here for pleasure, but rather; for business."

"Oh?" The barkeeper's smile falters, setting down the stein he had just retrieved, "well, how can I be of help?"

Arin exhales, preparing to dictate the same speech he already recited about five times today, "I'm Arin Hanson of The Awesome Program on 96.9. Due to unforeseen circumstances, I am in need of a new co-host and was wondering if there was any local talent that frequents this establishment." 

The man behind the bar's blue shutters look bored beyond belief, and Arin thinks he might be out of luck once again. The elder man exhales, "Well, I don't think I will be able to help you."

Arin nods understandingly, but still massively disappointed. 

"But my bandmate might be able to help you out."

Arin's eyes widen and a smile splits his face wide open, "That's fantastic news! Is he entertaining?” 

“Is the pope Catholic?” the bartender swiftly replies.

Arin chuckles despite himself, at the man’s quick wit “Well, is he talented?”

The bartender scoffs, “When a red giant does not possess enough mass to fuse carbon, does an inert mass of carbon and oxygen build up in its center, thereby transforming it into a dense white dwarf?”

Arin stares blankly, mouth slightly agape. Simultaneously afraid to answer, and even more afraid to remain silent, “uhhh, yes?”

The man behind the bar winks at him, “yeparoo buckaroo.”

Arin regains his smile, finally recovering from the astrochemistry lesson, “That’s swell to hear. Where might I find him?"

The barkeep stole a glance at his pocket watch, "Well, seeing as it's a little after two, he's probably still at his day job."

"Perfect," Arin says, rummaging through his pocket to fetch a pen and scrap of paper, "could you please tell me where he’s working and what his name is?"

"Now hold on a second there, how do I know you're not a super secret assassin off to kill him? Or an ax-wielding lunatic? Or a crazed samurai from the past?" The barman accused.

"Well, if I were an assassin, I wouldn’t have given you my real name, I have no axe to speak of, and... and," Arin thinks for a moment, "But, I must admit, you saw right through the act,” Arin shook his head in fake defeat, “I guess the jig is up: I am a time-traveling samurai, I have come from Ancient Japan in search of you and your acquaintance,'" he admits, doing his best to hide the smile so close to the surface.

The man pauses and gives Arin a once over. He can see the wheels turning in the owner’s head, as he carefully examines the man who just entered his bar. Soon, a grin breaks his otherwise stoic expression. 

"I like you, Hanson, you're alright." He walks out from behind the bar, hand outstretched, "I'm Brian Wecht, owner of The Sacred Chalice."

Arin shakes the man's outstretched hand and allows himself to at last relax, at least the bartender was warming up to him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Brian, and hopefully, it’ll be a pleasure to meet the man of which you continually speak,” Arin hints, being on the verge of a co-host candidate was making him slightly impatient. 

“Ah, yes, Danny. You can find him working over on the other side of town, at the corner of 6th and 9th,” Arin hurriedly jots the information down. But, why does that sound so familiar, the corner of 6th and 9th? “And you said his name was Danny?”

“Yes, Daniel Avidan.”

Arin pauses, and looked up at Brian, “is he umm…”

“Jewish?”

“I was gonna use more delicate terms, but-”

“Listen, if you’ve got a problem with that-”

“No! That is the farthest thing from my mind, It’s just not what I was expecting,” Arin feels like as an asshole as he takes the man’s name down. He could hear Brian walk behind the counter again to resume counting the register’s cash.

“Mr. Wecht, thank you so much for this information, and I hope to see you again real soon.” 

Arin takes off his hat in farewell and heads for the exit before he hears Brian reply, “You be good to that boy, lord knows he needs to catch a break.” Arin smiles as he began his ascent up the spiral stairs.


	5. Neo-Classical Symphony of the Python

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The bigger the cushion, The sweeter the pushin’,  
> That’s what I said  
> The looser the waistband, The deeper the quicksand  
> Or, so I have read  
> My baby fits me like a flesh tuxedo, I’d like to sink her with my pink torpedo.”  
> — This Is Spinal Tap, Big Bottom (1984)

Approaching the corner of 6th and 9th, Arin finally understands why the address stuck out in his mind, it is, in fact, the location of the soup kitchen he visited earlier in the week. The now familiar establishment is surprisingly full for 3:30 in the afternoon. Men stand in a line which wraps around the corner, all waiting for a taste of that delectable cabbage soup. The smell of which wafts out the door, simply to torment them. Arin elbows his way through the crowd, hearing several shouts of protest as he passes by, and he slowly but surely advances to the front of the line. The same young doll Arin met on his last visit operates the soup station, but instead of the older woman, the man who had been entertaining patrons a few days ago assists her. His mane of hair contained in a small ponytail. Arin swallows and approaches the pair.

“Excuse me, hello,” Arin says, successfully gaining the attention of the two workers after a few moments, “I’m looking for Daniel.” 

The lady looks to the man beside her, before he responds, “That would be me, may I help you,” he sounds uneasy. The look he throws Arin's way makes him abrupptly aware of the concern held by his new acquaintance.

“Sir, I’m so sorry to interrupt you at work like this, but may I please have a word with you?”

Daniel looks to his coworker, “Are you gonna be okay if I scram for a couple minutes?”

“Not a problem,” she shakes her head handing a bowl to a man in line, as if to prove her capableness, “Go right ahead,” She manufactures a forced tight lipped smile and continues to work. 

Daniel beckons Arin to follow him into a somewhat isolated corner of the mess hall, where they were more likely to talk without one having to shout in order to be heard by the other. Daniel sits across from Arin while he fiddles with a string at the hem of his shirt sleeve.

“You were in here a couple of days ago weren’t you?” Daniel inquires, undoing the knot holding his apron around his waist, and retrieving a pack of cigs from his back pocket.

“Yes, yes I was. Unfortunately I didn’t get to hear your apparently amusing story about, what was it, Spinnakers?” Arin replies.

Daniel smiles, “Oh right, I was entertaining some patrons with a little lightheartedness. It, of course, distracts them from the heavyheartedness,” Daniel’s smile shifts slightly, obviously thinking about another matter entirely. Snapping back to reality, he lights the end of his fag and takes a quick draw, puffing the smoke out the side of his mouth, “but anyway, what can I do for you Mr....?”

“Hanson, I’m Arin Hanson,” Arin extends his hand across the table and the two shake in belated greeting. “"I'm a host of The Awesome Progr-” Arin stops mid-introduction as the man across from him gives a slight gasp. Arin’s eyebrows raise of their own volition.

“I knew I recognized your voice! You’re Ego!” Daniel’s peepers beam with excitement. This is better than Arin could have hoped, this fellow is not only familiar with the program, but is clearly a fan, “We listen to your show almost everyday in here! We love it, but..” Daniel trails off looking at the table, “well, it’s been a bit… different lately,” Dan finishes, daring a glance towards Arin.

Arin exhales, “Yes, you are correct in your observations. Something is very off, I am currently down a co-host. That’s precisely the subject of my visit, I am in search of a new partner,” Daniel’s eyes bolt up to meet Arin’s, searching his corneas for the slightest hint of insincerity. Finding none the former begins to smile, “and I’m here to see if you’d be interested in co-hosting with me.” Arin feels the excitement radiating off of the man sitting across from him, he is squirming in his seat like a child who was just promised a pony for Christmas.

“Mr. Hanson, I am utterly honored that you would come here, but I must admit, I’m slightly confused as to why you would ask me, of all people.”

Deciding it’d be rude to inform the man before him that he actually interviewed several other candidates before coming here, Arin admits, “Your colleague, Mr. Wecht, recommended you to me. Said you might be interested in radio work,” As if it were possible, Daniel’s smile just multiplies.

“Brian! Of course it was him,” Daniel smiles fondly, his bright visage slightly obscured by the thin vapors from his cigarette, “That’s incredible, only a few days ago we were talking about how our band has been somewhat plateauing, I don’t think you understand what a chance this could be for us… for me.” 

The unhindered enthusiasm could blind if one were to stare directly into it. Daniel already seems head over heels with the idea of joining, and Arin just mimics the former’s growing smile.

“Well listen don’t blow your wig just yet, I hardly know anything about you. We gotta make sure we have chemistry, if we get along, you know, if it’s even possible to do a show together,” Arin explains, “And even then, the decision entirely resides with the station manager, he gets final say over everything.”

Daniel nods, “Okay, well how do we accomplish that. I mean, see if we would be good co-hosts?”

“Well, we will need to perform a segment before the station manager, just like we’d be doing a live show for an audience. If he likes what we got going here, we’ve got a show.”

“And if not?”

Arin blows a raspberry and gives the man across the table the thumbs down. For how amusing the gesture is, a sliver of doubt washes across Daniel's chest. But the feeling is quickly obscured by an overwhelming sense of anticipation for what could come of this. Even if it falls through, this experience could get him connections at the station, and through Arin. It seems like a win/win situation.

“Okay,” Daniel nods, taking another puff from the cigarette, “So, what’s the gimmick?”

“I don’t follow,” Arin admits furrowing his brow in confusion.

“Uhh, what will make our program unique compared to the competition. Because,” he chuckles, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “you can’t expect to bring on some new blood and just pick up where Jon left off, the listeners would be furious.”

Arin could not deny the truth behind the argument Daniel makes. Moving on from The Awesome Program might just be in the best interest of the station, the listeners, and his own career. The implications of putting the project to rest hangs heavy over Arin’s head, like a cumulonimbus cloud ready to dump its hoard upon his head. All that he and Jon worked tirelessly for, just obliterated, just forgotten, just dropped? Could he do that?

Realizing the span of silence between them had become longer than socially acceptable, Arin professes, “I don’t like what you’re saying, but I think you are right. I mean we can keep elements of The Awesome Program, I think the listeners would like that, but... The audience would see through the bullshit, if we just tried to replace Jon with no preamble. We have to switch it up.”

Dan smiles, “Does this mean, you’d like to work with me?”

Arin realizes, the man sitting before him has not given him a single reason to hire him, and yet, he wants to work alongside Daniel. Arin briefly wonders if Daniel has that effect on everyone, or if Arin is just exceptionally desperate, “Well, talk to me about your experience in the entertainment business.

Dan leans back in his chair running a hand through his thick hair. He flicks the cigarette with his other and lets out a deep exhale. Arin thinks he must be quite popular with the ladies, as he himself finds the man intermediately handsome. And then there he was, a fucking greaseball in comparison, “Well, my first love was music. I played the upright bass in one previous band called The Southern Blues, where I worked down south with a band composed of primarily colored people. It was a great experience, don’t get me wrong, but I just got tired of being treated differently than my bandmates, people calling me ‘sir’ shit like that, it just didn’t feel right. So, moved back up North and tried my luck in Philadelphia. There I became part of a duo known as Spry Trill and we did mostly lounge work. I dropped my dog-house for some dough, and tickled the ivories instead of strumming those strings while my partner would strum away at a guitar or sometimes toot a horn,” Daniel acquires this thick fog over his amber lamps, so obviously reminiscing about days gone by, “I really thought that was it, that I had found a cruising altitude… But all swell things cease to be, I guess,” he shrugs as if it was no big deal, “Shortly after we parted ways I met Brian, and that’s when things went from good to great. We understood each other, just instantly connected. It was like reuniting with a friend I’d never even made. So together me and Brian are Neo-Classical Symphony of the Python, although we go by NSP,”

“Sorry, hate to butt-in, but uhh, did you say Neo-Classical-”

“Symphony of the Python, I absolutely did,” Daniel finishes the thought for Arin, who just stares at him in disbelief.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” 

“Shitting you? I would never,” Arin leans over the table and releases a guttural laugh, “What?” Daniel chuckles along with him, “It’s an awesome name!” he defends.

Arin shakes his head, “No...you’re so right, you’re so right. It’s an incredible name,” he titters, voice growing higher in amusement, “But, like, I’m just imagining the logistics of an actual python fucking conducting you and Brian.”

“What? And he’s got the little baton in his teeth and he’s just waving his head around,” Daniel demonstrates what the snake might look like by clamping his arms to his sides and violently whipping his head around the air in front of him, causing Arin to further lose his shit. He covers his face with his hands to muffle the roars of laughter, and the tears around the corners of his eyes. Daniel joins in on his laughter, as the man before him possessed a laugh that was impossible to hear without yourself, smiling along.

Coughing like he smoked a pack a day, Arin swiftly recovers from Daniel’s demonstration, acutely aware of the dozens of eyes upon both of them, but he could not muster the energy to care, “Still worried we won’t have chemistry?” Arin asks wiping a tear away from his eyes which resembled sprinklers more than human corneas at the moment.


	6. Whose Broad Stripes and Bright Stars (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Before the parade passes by, I've gotta get some life back into my life  
> I'm ready to move out in front, I've had enough of just passing by life.”  
> — Dolly Levi, Before the Parade Passes By (1969)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lil Dan backstory
> 
> *TW* Beware the anti-semitisim at the end

Dan was never a great student. He was not disrespectful or mean spirited towards his peers or instructors, nor did he fail to comprehend the material (even if his work scarcely got done, that was due simply to boredom and disinterest). It was his inability to concentrate that doomed him. Sometimes his mother would tease, saying that his DNA was coded with an inherent need to daydream, to gaze out the nearest window, to tap out a tune on the tops of his thighs. It wasn’t his fault, he honestly couldn’t help it. Wherever his mind ventured, he had to follow.

However, his apathetic approach unintentionally caught the attention of not only his instructor, but some of the students as well. The schoolhouse consisted of one large room filled with kids aged 10-18. Being at the lower end of this spectrum, being tall, lanky, quite unwilling to defend yourself, and (most importantly) being the only Jew was not a desirable combination to have in the Northern Jersey schoolhouse. After such uninspired lessons as: how to multiply by four and “I” before “E” except after “C”, he would hurry straight for the door and keep his head down, attempting to avoid as much contact with his classmates as possible. But more often than not, he found himself cornered, or out-run, or ambushed. A group of maybe three or four older boys always thought it’d be a great idea to rearrange his little Jewish face.

One particular occasion that always sticks out in his mind is the day of their town’s bicentennial. The streets all lined with flags and flowers in order to celebrate the founding of the great town of Chatham, New Jersey. But the most exciting part for Dan, occurs after the parade runs its course and a ceremony lead by the mayor, John Martin himself, begins. The celebration would include the singing of the Star-Spangled Banner, by none other than Leigh Daniel Avidan. The fact alone that he’d been chosen, out of all the kids who had tried out, for what felt like the most prestigious thing his thirteen year old mind could comprehend, was enough to keep him up late at night practicing the notes of the nation’s anthem. His whole family would be in attendance, including some distant aunts and uncles he hardly remembered, and (to his great pleasure) his beloved grandmother. Unfortunately, as the whole town was out celebrating, this would mean that his malicious classmates would undoubtedly be out as well. 

For the duration of the parade Dan nervously sits on the street’s curb, never leaving his sister’s side. She is far too preoccupied with grabbing penny candy thrown towards their curb to notice her brother’s foot tapping incessantly or his occasional glance over his shoulder into the crowd surrounding their family. The idea of what could befall him in the event a particularly mean-spirited schoolmate spotted him is petrifying. What if he would have to sing in front of the whole town with a black eye? Or worse, what if they hit him in the throat and rendered him unable to sing? Thankfully the parade went on without incident. By the parade’s end, the lap of Dana’s dress was filled with suckers, Tootsie Rolls, and even some Hershey Kisses. Ten minutes before 3:00 his father pulls on his sleeve, and leads him by the hand to the grand stage where the ceremony would soon begin. 

Logically, Dan knows the stage was about four feet away, but it feels as though the expanse of the Atlantic is between him and that stage. His mouth grows dry and his heart flutters, Avi, much like Dana, doesn't seem to notice his nerves.

“Is this the young man I’ve heard so much about! What was it? Leigh?” The pot-bellied mayor affably greets. The man tears Danny from his thoughts and he realizes they have already walked behind the gazebo, where the live band was reclining, smoking, waiting to go on stage.

“Daniel,” Avi politely corrects, patting his son’s shoulder proudly.

“Oh, well Daniel, did you bring your Sunday best?” The mayor asks, looking cartoonishly large from Dan’s vantage point of four feet and six inches off the ground. The lines etched into the man’s face give him age and character, especially when he smiles. The mayor’s neatly kept facial hair is trimmed to perfection, his long mustache even has a bit of curl at its ends. Dan thought it made him look like one of those ‘Guess Your Weight’ men you might see at a carnival. After a moment of simply staring up at the mayor, Dan feels his throat constrict and realizes he has just been staring blankly at the man. Brain catching up with his ears, he realizes he's been asked a question. So, he nods his head vigorously and gives the mayor a close-mouthed smile. 

The mayor smiles back, “Well, you better get to it son, we’ll be ready for you to sing in about ten minutes. Okay?” 

Dan nods again, and runs over to where he had stashed the suit his parents bought him just for this occasion. Avi yells a ‘good luck’ after him, but Dan can only hear the chittering of the crowd. The suit which had cost Avi almost an entire paycheck, the suit Debbie warned him not to tear or stain. The suit they said made him look like a proper young man. He hastily dresses behind a tree, too excited and nervous to be embarrassed about being in only his underwear in a public park. Once his cuffs are linked and his shoes are tied, he nervously paces around the gazebo for six more minutes. He mouths the lyrics to the song while picking at his fingernails, trying to remember if it was “gallantly streaming” or “valiantly streaming”. He always screws that line up. His mother had been so patient with him, taking time out of her busy evenings to sit at the piano with him, trying to teach him the correct notes and rhythms. The two spent almost half an hour each day reviewing it, so why was he now blanking? In his depths of despair, he hears low voices coming through the thicket of bushes and trees. The thought of hiding briefly flashes through Dan’s mind, but he is rooted to the spot for the fear of dirtying the suit. His worst fears became reality when he sees just who is approaching. Three classmates whom Dan would never forget: Garrath, Cid, and Johnny. The punk asshole kids who were always first to terrorize him. 

Garrath, the brawn of the operation, was bulky in body but not in brains. For every muscle cell in his body was swole to the brink of popping, Dan was sure the cells in his brain shriveled and died from sheer neglect. He sprouted the most rotten, yellow, coarse teeth no doubt a result of his strict diet of sweets and pop sodas. But Garrath’s most...ahem… unique feature was most likely the parasitic mole the size of a quarter that took residency on his flubber-impregnated cheek. He could take down a kid five years older than himself with a strategically placed punch, and he prided himself on this fact. He was plenty rugged, but not plenty astute.

Cid, the scrawniest of the trio is the fox of the operation. Dubious, dastardly, and deceptive with a face to match. Two seemingly permanent sets of braces graced his teeth. The ginger always wore a fox-skin hat not only to match his devious personality, but to constantly remind all those around him of his treacherousness, especially to smaller beings than himself with little to no defense. Makes sense why he always wanted to target Dan. His method of attack is sleek and cunning, he manipulates his prey to fall into his clutches, and at the last possible second snares them in his trap.

Lastly Johnny, the gang’s ringleader and source of charm. The blonde towers above his two colleagues. Dan always thought his intelligence far surpasses his ‘friends’, he had always assumed Johnny only kept the other two around because he refused to get his grubby paws dirty. He had a handsome face with high arching eyebrows and pouty lips. His choice of weapon was not his fists or his wits but rather a much more impersonal means of attack: a pocketknife. The same knife, in fact, that his old man used to chip off a piece of his ear when he had gone on a drinking binge three summers ago. He would always say, while threatening his newest victim, he kept that knife as a reminder. A reminder that actions have consequences, but so do inactions. Sometimes doing nothing is as bad as doing something. That was how he would justify tormenting kids just minding their own business.

Immediately wary of their sudden appearance, Dan backs away from the approaching boys.

“Well, look who it is,” Johnny exclaims, leading the trio towards Danny, “what are you up to Avidaniel?” His cronies snicker at the name which Dan finds quite uncreative.

“Nothing, really,” Dan says, backing into a nearby tree. Officially trapped. Officially fucked.

“Nothing?” Johnny sarcastically questions, looking to his friends in mock surprise, “That's not what we heard,” the boys now only twenty feet away, continue to stalk closer to him. Hyenas surrounding a gazelle before they rip its throat out, “No, I don’t think that’s true. See, ‘cause we heard, you was gonna be singing the Star Speckled Banner,” Dan can not decide if they are simply incredibly stupid or if they are being sarcastic.

“We don't take kindly to Jews acting like theys American,” Garrath buts in, his ham sized meathooks clenched in anger.

Dan’s shutters grow wide in fear, “But, I am American, I was born h-”

“Yeah, and where was your Daddy born, huh?” Johnny questions, now only five feet from him.

Dan dares not answer. He just stares at his nice new dress shoes, hoping against hope that they would just leave him be.

“That's what I thought,” Johnny says, now face to face with his prey, he grabs Dan’s jaw and forces him to make eye contact, “you're not going on that stage, are ya?”

Never, in Dan’s entire life, had he wanted to be someone else more. Why did he have to be different? Maybe if he was born a Methodist or a Protestant, he could go home without a black eye or bloody lip every other day. But whether he was Jewish or not, everyone is still expecting the national anthems to be sung. But, perhaps it would be in his best interest to lie, “No, no way. Wouldn't dream of it.”

Johnny lets go of Dan’s face and smiles a smile that could curdle milk, “I am so glad to hear that,” Johnny claps Dan on the back making him buck forward slightly at the sheer force of the pat, “cause if you was to go on that stage,” Johnny leans in close, so their noses are an inch apart. Dan has no choice but to stare into those gray, emotionless blinkers, “I think you’d be in for a pretty bad time.”

Dan swallows, but his throat remains dry. The boys retreat from whence they came. A shiver dances along his spine as the clock tower chimes three o’clock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im pretty sure Dan didnt actually grow up in Chatham, however that town would have had it's bicentennial in the 1910s so that's why i picked it :)


	7. The Brief and Bleak Ballad of Leslie Winslow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You must not let anyone define your limits because of where you come from.  
>  Your only limit is your soul.   
> What I say is true... only the fearless can be great.”  
> — Chef Gusteau, Ratatouille (2007)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anti-semetic themes will be present throughout the rest of this story, so if that bothers you, I would not continue reading.
> 
> dicks out for sad!dan   
> tits out for mom!brian

“My thinking is, that in order for things to work out, romantically that is, someone has to be captivating. It’s swell if they’re cool, or nice, but that person also has to intrigue you, and hold your interest, do you get what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Arin nods, head turned to the right listening intently to Daniel’s story. 

“So, you just have one of those moments, where the two of you are at the grocery store, or the pharmacy, and she’s just like,” Dan holds up his hand in the shape of a mouth to demonstrate. Flapping his fingers and adopting a girly voice, he mimics, “‘blah, blah, blah, blah blAH’, and you just have to go: ‘...yea’”

Arin doubles over, his laughs projecting him forward. His vocal cords are so strained from the effort, he coughs furiously at the irritation.

“And she could literally be saying aaanything,” Daniel continues, his chuckles mixing in with Arin’s, “So now, not only is this girl really not piquing my interest too much, I find out she’s an Episcopalian! We’re gonna have to fuck through a sheet,” Arin loses it at that, giving the top of his knee a few good slaps while Dan joins in on the laughter. 

The two decided to meet on the trolley and ride to the station together (Arin was grateful for the break from biking, and seemed so excited at the idea. Daniel neglected to remind Arin he, himself, lived only two blocks from the station) to warm up for the show and break the nervous tension that had wedged its way between them in anticipation of their upcoming ‘audition’, so to speak. The pair doubted their potential chemistry, as they have only spoken about three times. In order to better prepare themselves, the following day Dan met Arin at the station after The Awesome Program ended so Arin could teach Daniel some basics about the equipment. While in the studio, they decided to do a trial run of the show in which Arin invented a skit following a dorky, quirky, and sexually mischievous girl named Laura Schmidt. Whereas Dan created an alien race known as Zognoids who live amongst humans, although they are rather careless with this fact) before they were to perform a set, didn’t sit too well with either of them. The more Arin talked with Daniel, the more confident he became that the two of them would have no problem securing a show with the station. 

Wiping a tear from his eye, Arin keeps the gag going, “You like,” more chuckles, “You get over to her house, all excited, and she opens the door and just says, ‘lemon squares?’” Now Dan’s eyes close with laughter, “And you’re just like:’Nnnnnoooo!’” Their laughter fades to a natural stop. The only sounds remaining are the cable car’s rusty tracks creaking along, the people on either side of them conversing and the occasional yell of a street vendor pushing papers on innocent passersby. Arin feels content, and he looks up into the sky smiling lightly as his hand subconsciously drifts to the slight bump of the necklace beneath his shirt, he feels that everything would work out okay. But Daniel’s silence jerks his attention back to his companion.

“So,” he begins, lightly slapping Dan’s pinstriped knee, “Are you feeling nervous?”

Daniel shrugs, smile only cosmetically stamped to his lips, “A little,” he shrugs picking at the skin around his fingernails.

“Just a little,” Arin ducks his head slightly, trying to make eye contact with the man beside him, “Seriously?”

“I mean, it’s weird, “ Dan begins dropping his hands into his lap, and finally looks at Arin, “I have no reason to be nervous, I’ve played a hundred shows, easy, with all my different bands. But I’ve been running through what might happen today in my mind over and over. Because with my bands, there were always other people who could easily cover up a mistake I might make, and our audiences weren’t listening for a mistake. But this… I just feel so…”

“Exposed?”

“Yeah! Because I mean, if I fuck up, that might mess you up. If I don’t perform well, it won’t just make me look bad, it will affect you negatively as well, and I don’t want to do that,” Daniel explains switching between making eye contact with Arin and looking out to the moderately busy city street, “I can handle screwing something up for myself, but not something that my friend has worked so hard to create.”

Arin exhales, “Trust me, you’re just having pre-show jitters, when we get in the studio, and we start talking, everything will go smoothly, We’ll be funny as shit, and that station manager will laugh his ass off.”

Dan smiles and nods along, “Yeah, yeah,” Arin got the feeling he said that more for his own sake than Arin’s.

“I’m glad to hear you say that, you had me a little worried there,” Arin chuckles, glancing sideways at Daniel, “This is as much about me renewing my show as it is about you making your radio debut. Yeah?” Dan nods along, “I want you to feel as much apart of this thing as I do.”

Shuffling the strands of hair upon his head, Daniel looks out the trolley’s window once more, exhaling and fogging the glass momentarily, “We never did talk about one aspect of the show.”

“What?”

“The name. What are we going to name the show?”

The name of the show had not even occurred to Arin, “Oh shit, I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about that yet, if I’m going to be truthful.” The two sat in silence for a moment, the light cries of an infant aboard the trolley being the only sounds to buffer their thoughts. Until Arin, summoning all the brainpower he can muster, decides upon a name, “I’ve got it.”

“Yeah? Hit me with it,” Daniel shifts so his shoulders become perpendicular to Arin’s.

Looking directly into Dan’s eyes, Arin mutters, “The D-Club.”  
…

The station’s rep shakes his head side to side in seeming awe. Jotting down some final notes, he enters the recording booth with a grin sprawled across his face, “Well, I think we might have something special here,”

Arin takes the somewhat lukewarm response as an ecstatic compliment, for Lilley's standards that is. Their audition went much like the trolley ride and their first meeting, “Do you sincerely think we could get aired?” Arin walks around from behind the microphone, leaving Daniel alone, slightly obscured from view by the recording equipment.

“If you boys maintain that level of energy, and humor, you’ll have no problem with ratings and appeal, besides,” the station rep claps Arin’s shoulder, “you have yet to disappoint me Hanson,” he flashes Arin a glint of his pearly whites (That in truth were not so much “white” as “yellowing from the roots out, supposedly from the chain smoking of cigars he was known for”), “and you son,” he leaves Arin in order to approach Dan, “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name,” Brent holds out his calloused and rugged duke in greeting.

“Dan,” he smiles, matching the man’s firm grip, “Daniel Avidan.”

The station representative’s smile falters for a second, and they break the physical contact “Oh, well we’ll have to do something about that name huh?”

Dan furrows his brow, keeping his smile, despite a vaguely familiar feeling beginning to creep his way from his subconscious to his frontal lobe, “What do you mean?”

“Well,” name hitches up his pants slightly, “I mean, we can’t be broadcasting the fact that you’re a Jew,” he chuckles, “We won’t have a show.”

“Wait, what do you mean?” Arin asks walking back towards the pair.

Lilley looks surprised, “What, you think people will really keep tuning in if they find out your new addition is a Jew? You know what happened to Leslie Winslow when it got out that he was a Negro.”

Arin did know. He knows all too well. Leslie was a co-worker, he was a friend, and the intolerance of the public ruined his career, and ruined him. The talented young man had a gift. There was no denying that. He could adopt the most spectacular voices and completely turn into another person, vocally that is. He worked two floors below Arin and Jon, but that did not prevent them from seeing the man about in the building. His short curly hair always poofed out a little in the back, and everyone would tease ‘im about the pencil mustache which, according to him, reminded him of his grandfather (“Now listen here, I ain’t never told another man what to do with their hair, so I'll be damned if I stand here and take criticizim from a gent who thinks flat, and shiny is fashionable."). Jon and Arin were quite fond of the sketch show he hosted bi-weekly, they always tuned in and were sure to laugh their asses of or simply sit astounded at the creativity and talent flowing from the speaker.   
However beloved he may have been, his fans were fast to turn on him when the truth about his ethnicity was made public by some anonymous source. Despite all of this, Leslie remained devoted to his craft and insisted upon continuing with the regularly scheduled program. Leslie received death threats, hate mail, abusive calls and telegrams. Some of the other radio show hosts were also targeted for ‘conspiring’ with a negro. The scariest thing to happen to Leslie occurred about three weeks into the torrential waves of hate and abuse when his house was trashed. His belongings were stolen, his property vandalized and, most disturbingly, his family beaten. After that he resigned from the station, what other choice did he have? Arin honestly did not know what Leslie did now, he liked to think he skipped town and got a job in a more accepting town, however it was more likely Leslie had been reduced to bagging groceries at a Woolworths. He knew his lack of involvement in the whole situation was cowardly, and that in his friend’s time of need he chose self-preservation over the right thing to do. He is ashamed of it, and he doubts he would forgive himself any time soon.

Arin closes his eyes for a moment, and looks back to Daniel. Leslie had only resigned five months ago, hate that strong can’t be eradicated in that short a time, if those same people were to find out Daniel’s true identity... Arin wouldn’t be able to live with himself if the man’s family (or the man himself) were attacked in any way, “Daniel, if this is a deal breaker for you I dig, but we honestly are only concerned with your safety when we say, you should consider using a false name.”

Dan's Adam's apple quivers, he avoids the piercing stares from Arin and Brent. He should have known this opportunity was too good to be true. Why had he even thought they would hire someone like him in the first place, “Thank you for your time,” Dan tries to smile, but suspects his face resembles more of a grimace, “but I’m clearly not what you’re looking for,” he walks between the two men making to leave.

“Daniel, wait-” Arin is cut off when the door closes firmly in Arin’s face.

Arin sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes screwed shut. He fucked that up.

Brent leans close to Arin, “Don't let that boy get away,” Arin looks at him surprised, “He’s good. Too good to let bigoted assholes get in his way of success. You need to convince him to stay. You do that, you’ll get a daily show at 6 o’clock postmeridian.”

Arin imagines his eyes bulge out of his head, like a toon seeing a beautiful dame strut down the street. The dinner-time spot? The most profitable time slot, for the entire radio station, given to them? “You can count on me sir,” Arin says, nearly running to the door. New determination to convince Daniel to stay coursing through his veins.

…

Danny speed-walk out of the station and down the sidewalk, immediately lighting a snipe with his cold, shaking hands. When the nicotine hits his bloodstream, he feels a slight calm sweep over him. His mind races, yelling mental abuse at his idiocy, at the loss of an incredible opportunity. But, you can’t lose something you never had, right? Why had he even believed he stood a chance of getting a high-profile job at a big professional company? Why had Arin believed in him when he knew he was a fucking Jew? Dan suddenly realizes that his feet were on auto-pilot, and had taken him directly to The Sacred Chalice. It seems even his sub-conscious wanted him to smoke and drink his cares away, works every time. Maybe even get lucky enough to get laid, he needed to relieve some tension. Dan frustratedly throws his half-smoked cigarette onto the pavement, not bothering to stamp it out.

He tries to focus his eyes, in hopes his mind will also focus upon the visual stimuli. Unfortunately, the dirty sidewalk, complete with grass and weeds beginning to spring from the cracks within the concrete, did nothing to hold his attention. His shoes beat against the sidewalk in a steady rhythm, and even focusing on the tempo of his walking couldn’t keep his hateful mind from attacking him. Dan unconsciously scratches at his wrist, mind fully occupied by the mistake he made by agreeing to any of this. It accomplished nothing, he had only succeeded in wasting more time. He was wasting his life. No, not wasting his life. That would imply his life had some sort of inherent value, that he wasn’t a low-down dirty Jew. Because that’s what he was, right? That’s what everyone believes. A stupid tear escape his stupid tear duct as The Sacred Chalice’s front comes into view. He furiously wipes the water from his face and heads straight for the only thing he knows will make him feel better.

The Sacred Chalice is full. The patrons range in gender and age and race, but all are having the time of their lives. Such is evident by the ear-splitting noise escaping the establishment. A fine mixture of conversation, laughs, live music, and occasionally, glass breaking. He briefly wonders what Mr. Shaw tells his customers all that racket is about, ‘those damn neighbors are always raising a ruckus’ he would shake his head with a grin that would refuse to reach his eyes. Or perhaps those coming in for a shave and a haircut knew perfectly well the the barber shop was merely a front, and were either too lazy to report Vern or agreed that the prohibition was dumb as fuck.

A dense layer of smoke obscures the ceiling as well as the tops of the tallest patrons’ heads. Dan recognizes the regulars, some of which give him a smile, or a pat on the shoulder in recognition. Being the owner’s band mate had its quirks, some of those being free drinks, some of those being easy opportunities for gigs, and some of those being here day in and day out. Since moving to Los Angeles, most of the friends Danny made had either come from the soup kitchen or Brian (which were two vastly different circles of people).

Danny spots Brian behind the bar, and makes a Beeline for the bartender. Cutting by people clearly waiting to be served, who either glared at him or muttered abuse at him, “Barkeep, I am not nearly wasted enough!”

“Woah!” Brian exclaims while handing a foaming tankard of alcohol to a pretty little twist standing next to Dan, “The fuck are you doing here, I thought you had that thing tonight?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it. Where’s the Mary Jane?” he asks running a slender hand through his massive head of hair. Brian thinks Dan does not look like himself, his eyes are red rimmed, probably from tears, and his lips are a little puffy, probably from anxiously biting at them.

“Keep your voice down,” Brian exhales, feeling as though he should forgo any involvement in his friend’s self-destructive habits, but the vacant look in his eyes and his best dress shirt almost as wrinkled from stress as his face, make it hard to deny him “Behind me, the door to the left. It’s on the top shelf. Keep it back there, okay?” He mumbles just loud enough for Dan to hear him, “Next!” He yells over Danny’s shoulder and it takes all of two seconds for the next patron to elbow his way closer to the bar.

As his friend moves behind the bar, he spies a familiar face in the crowd, that Hanson guy. That Hanson guy who had obviously been the one who hurt Dan, who had the gall to show his face in this establishment. That bastard, Hanson. 

“Kevin!” Brian shouts to his left. It takes mere seconds for his apprentice to appear seemingly out of nowhere, scaring the owner half to death in the process. Kevin is over-eager as all hell, ready to please and way too young to be working here, “Son, I need you to mind the bar for a moment, I have something to take care of,” Brian’s face is set in a scowl and Kevin knows better than to argue with his superior. The younger man retrieves glasses from beneath the bar and launches himself into his work. Trusting that the boy would perform up to Sacred Chalice standards, Brian leaves his post to approach Hanson. The man is sat alone at a circular table and continuously peeks over the edge of his (upside down) newspaper every few seconds. He looks like he is trying to be covert, but is failing miserably. Brian easily sneaks up on him from behind, pointing the business end of his tantō into the man’s back. Hanson instantly tenses and slowly turns around to see Brian above him.

He leans down to be eye-level with Arin, “What the fuck did you do to Danny?”

Arin stammers, “What!? I- I didn’t do anything to him!”

“He came in here, with tears in his eyes ready to get fucking annihilated,” he pushes the knife a little farther into Arin’s back for emphasis, not enough to pierce the skin through the man’s shirt, but enough to get the point across.

“Would you put that thing away, we offered him the job and he’s the one who declined,” Arin rushes his words, eager to get the knife away from his back.

Brian pauses. He knows the man sitting before him is far too scared to try and pull the wool over his eyes, what with the death grip he has on the tops of his thighs. He slowly withdraws the weapon, stalking around the small circular table to sit across from Arin, who still looks warily at the barkeeper. Maintaining eye contact with Arin, Brian roughly stabs the knife in the wooden table, creating a temporary holster for his weapon. Brian thinks he sees Arin shiver. To punctuate the situation, Brian props his boot-laden feet on the table between them, “So, Danny declined the position, huh?”

Arin nervously relays the story of what transpired not a half hour ago at the station. As the story progresses, Arin begins to suspect that Brian’s initial malice towards him was beginning to subside. Especially after he told the tragic tale of Leslie Winslow and how he had been metaphorically run out of town on a rail, “So actually Wecht, I’m hear to try and convince Daniel to take the job. We… I need him,” Brian raises an eyebrow at this.

“Listen pally, you need to understand something about our ‘ole friend Danny,” Brian removes his tantō from the table, feeling that Arin no longer needs ‘persuading’ to behave himself, “He’s lived his whole life being treated like dirt for being a Jew, people got it in their heads that he murdered Jesus or some other retarded bullshit like that,” Brian shakes his head, “So, if he even suspects he’ll be discriminated against, the walls go up.” Brian explains.

Arin nods, “That was not our intention.”

Brian stands from his seat, looking to the bar to see Kevin still working fine without Brian’s direct supervision, even if he did look a tad flustered with so many patrons demanding his attention. Sighing he looks down at Arin, “He’s in the room behind the bar if you want to find him,” he starts to leave.

“Wait,” Arin stands to match the bartender, who looks back at Arin, “What do I say to him?”

Brian scratches the stubble upon his chin, choosing his words carefully, “He’s just scared Arin, make him see that there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/IMuR9O73-cQ?t=121  
> https://youtu.be/C8pCm2ZhrLE?t=253
> 
> These were my inspo for the opening dialogue, and some of my fave GG moments <3


	8. Through the Perilous Fight (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be."  
> -J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (2000)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *TW for Racial Slurs*  
> I'm so nervous to post this just because it involves actions against a main character that is heckin racist. Just please understand I write this to show my distaste for such actions, I am in no way

The courthouse clock rings out three times in steady succession, each ding-dong of the clock adds a weight of dread to the pit of Dan’s stomach. But he is no longer worried about singing the correct notes or mis-articulating a certain phrase, no his mind remains fully occupied by Garrath, Cid and Johnny. What would happen to him if he were to go on? What could they possibly do to him that might be worse than the inevitable disappointment of missing such a grand opportunity? What if instead of harassing him, they went after Dana? Like in those superhero radio serials, which Dan loved dearly, when the villains would find out the hero’s secret identity. The bad guys always knew the way to truly hurt the hero, was to go after their loved ones. Dan thinks if those three dunderheads honestly wanted to hurt Dan, they’d go for his sister instead. But they’d also be heading straight for the hospital, because Dan wasn't sure he would be able to repress his rage if they so much as laid a finger on Dana. Before he could think of the horrible ways which the boys might torment him or his sister, the mayor is barrelling up to him. His enormous belly bouncing as he moved surprisingly light on his feet.

“Leigh, my boy, are you ready?” He places a firm hand on Dan’s shoulder leading him towards the stage’s side entrance, not waiting for a confirmation or refusal. Dan can’t find the voice to bring up what had just transpired (or to correct the mayor entitling him by his “real” name), and in any case, he doubts the mayor would be pleased with him for chickening out over some "kid-stuff.’ So he allows himself to be pushed to the foot of the stage steps, to wait for his singing debut. Thankfully the crowd can not see the pair, and they can not see the crowd. However, the muted roars of voices give Dan a pretty good idea of just how many people would be watching him. He self-consciously brushes off the arms of his suit jacket, and tries to corral the herd of hairs embedded in his scalp. The sun shines hotly down upon him and Dan desperately wishes to be rid of his fancy suit. He much prefers some ripped jeans and an old t-shirt. What he wouldn't give to be home listening to Babe Ruth or Lou Gehrig hitting some homers on the radio.

The mayor throws one final look his way before climbing the stairs, hand raised towards Dan, as if commanding a dog to stay. Dan hears the dampened applause of the townsfolk as the mayor’s weight causes the wooden stage to squeak and creak under his shiny shoes. Dan tries visualizing what the mayor must look like: sweat giving the man a healthy glow, as he speaks slowly and surely into the microphone perched atop a stand, but he could not focus on this for long. His mind keeps racing with the things his antagonizers had said:

“We don't take kindly to Jews acting like theys American.”  
”If you was to go on that stage, I think you’d be in for a pretty bad time.”

Danny shudders one last time, before returning his attention to the words of the mayor, “and on such a extraordinary day, we need to celebrate in a proper manner.” More applause, this time accompanied by many ‘woo-hoo’s of appreciation, “And to start off such a celebration, we’d ask you to please stand and remove your hats for the singing of the national anthem of these United States.” The phrase ‘United States’ receives the most thunderous response yet. The mayor smiles, and walks towards where Dan stands (more like trembles), beckoning him to join him on the stage. 

Legs lined with lead, Dan begins to climb the steps of the stage. As he steps into view, the overly bright sun overtop of the crowd illuminates the stage’s yellow wooden finish in a golden sheen. He is greeted by some scattered applause, he figures his family attributes most of the clapping, but is too terrified to look into the faces of the audience. He approaches the front of the stage where the microphone stand had been lowered to accommodate for him. He chances a look at the crowd; Dan had never seen so many people in his entire life. Rows and rows of men, women, and children. There must be near a thousand people standing below him. All attendees wearing their Sunday best, crowded together, and staring at him. Dan shakily exhales, but soon realizes he had not seen Cid, Garrath, or Johnny. Maybe this wouldn't be the end of his life after all. Regaining some confidence, Dan smiles at the mayor and gives him a little nod. For the first time in the past ten minutes, he feels assured in himself, and confident in his ability.

The mayor’s smile grows as he turns to the quartet huddled on the far side of the stage cueing them to begin. Dan hears a tight snare roll, closes his eyes and takes his first breath in preparation to sing. Before the first note can escape his lips Dan hears a squishy splat a few inches ahead of him. His eyes shoot open only to be assaulted with a gory sight. At his feet, in a grotesque pile lays a pile of meat, raw meat. Dan’s eyes widen in horror as the bloody trails the dead flesh had created on the stage begin to trickle out in all directions. People in the crowd scream, the band’s drummer ceases his roll. Danny’s hands rush up and cover his nose and mouth with disbelief, and partly to guard his senses from the rank smell of the rotting, slimy meat. 

Before he can even think how to respond something slimy, cold, and wet collide with his left shoulder. The impact of the second hunk of meat thrown is enough to drive him backwards, staggering slightly. He stands for a moment with his mouth agape. He had ruined The Suit, the most money his parents ever shelled out for him looks like a massacre. Blood dripped down his crisp black sleeve and some of the meat was now all but embedded in the fabric. Although dead, the flesh seems to wriggle its way into the fibers of the blazer. The blood quickly seeps through, and Dan can feel the cold, sickly texture of the blood mixed with the protein discharge soak to his skin. The crowd seems just as shocked, appalled and clueless as Dan felt. The audience is dead silent, and simply stare wide eyed at the stage. Dan tries to shake off the disgusting clump of meat, but far too quickly, it is raining the stuff. The sticky, stinky horror pelts Dan from every angle. The blood coated meat hits his shoes, his shins, his hair. With growing nausea and horror; Danny realizes what the meat is and why it had been thrown at the Jewish boy, of course; it is pork.

He turns his back to the audience, not only to hide the growing shame upon his face and the tears within his eyes, but to also prevent any more blood or meat from striking his face. He starts to run off the stage, but an outburst of laughter from the audience stops him. His neck quickly grows fiery, and the pellets of meat cease as the laughter begins to escalate. Looking over his shoulder, Dan sees nothing amusing whatsoever. Nothing in the crowd or on the stage. But something flashes in his mind, Johnny. When Johnny had come to see him, with the human embodiments of nuisances, he called his friends; he clapped Dan on the back. He threatened Dan; he humiliated Dan, then he had hit him in the back. Why had he done that? Dan numbly reaches for his back and sure enough he feels a slip of paper attached to his jacket. Not wanting to spend another moment on the stage, Danny runs off, the crowd laughing after him. He runs down the side steps, tears starting to escape from his eyes, and rips the paper off his back. The edges are coated in blood and the grimy juices from the raw pork, but what is scrawled in big letters upon the page is still terribly plain to see: “Avidan: The Nonkosher Kike.”


	9. Who You Callin' a Little Bitch?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The only proof he needed for the existence of God  
> was music.”   
> ― Kurt Vonnegut

Brian stands from his seat. Looking to the bar, through the conical beams of light and billowing coils of smoke, he sees Kevin still working fine without his direct supervision (even if he does look a tad flustered with so many patrons demanding his attention at once). Sighing he looks to Arin, “Dan’s just scared Arin, make him see that there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Arin can do nothing but stare at the bartender’s retreating shoulders, stare and think over what had been said. Arin thought Daniel was just being a little dramatic. Perhaps he wanted to see if Arin would pursue him, some stars needed their egos stroked like that. However, that seems far from the truth now, and a part of Arin had known all along that Daniel was not your average narcissistic prick. But still, how could be even begin to coerce Daniel to come back? What has he gotten himself into with this Daniel Avidan fella? He exhales, which transforms into a slight cough from the thick layer of smoke that seems to permanently cling to the air of this establishment. Overworked and tired eyes turn towards the ceiling at the thought that the brunt of his work had not even begun yet. He rubs both palms down his face, trying to wipe the slate clean, trying to reevaluate this entire situation.

Part of Arin wants to leave. No co-host is worth all this effort Daniel seems to require just to sign onto the program. He needs a man with confidence, a man who will hold up his end of the show. A man who effortlessly compliments Arin, not only in comedic prowess, but in style and performance. But hadn't Daniel demonstrated all of that? Their instant chemistry astounded not only themselves, but the station manager as well. Did he not owe it to Daniel, the man he had sought out, to give him a second chance?  
God damn it. 

Looking from his chair to the bar, Arin runs a clammy hand across the nape of his neck, mentally preparing himself for whatever he was about to encounter. He walks towards the bar, where he could see both Brian and his apprentice working fast, pouring elixirs (more akin to poison than alcohol, in his opinion) and taking orders from ruddy cheeked men and slightly swaying women. Arin snakes his way through the crowd, craning his neck above the patrons, getting a face-full of toxic smoke in the process. While his eyes tear up, he does catch a glimpse of the door Brian had spoken of. Determined, he marches towards the door. He sneaks behind the bar and quickly moves towards the back room. He tries to move as swiftly as he can, as he felt he certainly does not belong back behind the bar. Basically stumbling into the room, Arin slams the door behind him and beholds the man before him. Daniel’s form sits slumped, almost crumpled looking, against the back wall of the modest room, right hand clutching a half-consumed, name brand bottle of Absinthe, left hand cradling a cigarette. The room smells strange, a tangy herbal aroma hangs in the air. The smell is peculiar and foreign to Arin, but not totally unpleasant. Upon Arin’s entrance, the other man’s eyes grow wide with surprise (fear?) and he tries to shimmy into an upright sitting position.

“Oh, uh, hello Arin,” his eyes dart around the room. Looking anywhere but at the other man, “fancy meeting you here, care for a drink?” He raises the bottle of slightly green liquid weakly.

Arin merely shakes his head as he approaches the small and feeble looking man, “Daniel, don’t give me that bullshit right now. What happened back at the station?” Arin sinks down onto the dirty floor, next to Daniel, resting his back against the bare brick wall, “we performed a great set, and Mr. Lilley nearly blew his wig he loved it so much! What’s going on, really?” 

Daniel takes another shallow swallow from the bottle and immediately coughs at the harshness of the liquor, “Not to sound like an asshole, but what’s it to you Arin?” He asks taking a draw from his cigarette.

“Well, I mean, it is my ass on the line if I don’t put a show out,” Arin’s patience is disappearing, “and, in my experience friends don’t leave friends out to dry like you just did.”

Daniel looks up at that, although his eyes still look droopy and hooded, at least he can look him in the eye now, “Listen, Arin, I’m sorry I bailed, but I genuinely don’t think a radio show would be the best thing for me, or my career right now,” he shakes his frizzy mane back and forth, not bothering to push the loose strands from his face, “I’m just gonna stay with NSP and me and Brian will conquer the world with our smooth jams,” as he explains this plan, his head slowly slides sideways until his temple lands with a light thunk on Arin’s shoulder, “you’re soft.”

“You’re trashed,” Arin giggles looking down at his fairly new acquaintance with a mixture of embarrassment and confusion. He wonders how he would ever get Daniel to come back to the show in such a state.

“Yea,” Dan admits elevating his head off of Arin’s shoulder to take another drag of his cigarette, mid puff, he turned to Arin, “Oh, do you want some?” Daniel holds the paper cylinder for Arin to accept or deny.

“I don’t smoke,” Arin shakes his head.

Daniel snickers a little, plopping his head back onto Arin’s shoulder, “It’s not tobaccey Arin,” he takes another puff, holds the smoke in his lungs for emphasis and lightly blows it up into Arin’s face in a thin stream. 

Arin waves the coils of smoke away from himself, “Daniel, I’m gonna be completely honest with you, because I respect you. As an artist, as a comedian… and as my friend, you’re acting like a little bitch right now.”

Daniel backs his head away from Arin’s shoulder once more, lips pursed and eyes slitted in insult, “Who you callin’ a little bitch?”

“You, motherfucker.” Daniel actually laughs at the insult taking another swig of liquor, “I know you ran because you’re afraid. Afraid of being discriminated against, or, or something, but you can’t let all that bullshit get in the way of something you could be fucking great at.”

“You’ve got a potty mouth,” Daniel smiles, Arin remains stoic. “Arin,” Daniel complains closing his eyes briefly, “I don’t wanna think right now, hence the Absinthe and Marijuana cruise I have embarked upon,” Daniel slouches against the wall once more, feeling defeated and not having nearly as good a time as he would have liked. 

“Daniel, ‘m not here to ruin your good time, or whatever-”

“Why do you call me that?” Daniel asks vacantly.

“What?”

“Daniel? The only one who fucking calls me ‘Daniel’ is my dad,” Daniel chuckles,“Call me Dan, or Danny, or Danny Boy, or Dannerino, or-”

“Okay, Dan. Got it,” Arin says holding his hands up, trying to stop the nickname train the two had unwittingly boarded, “What I was saying was: I’m not trying to be a wet blanket or anything,” he shifts, turning his whole body to face Dan,“But back there you said you weren’t what we were looking for, and I’m here to assure you that: you are. You just need more confidence in yourself, don't let people walk all over you just ‘cause you’ve got a clipped dick.”

Dan doubles over with laughter at that, and Arin can not help but join in, and they both think to themselves that their combined laughter is a beautiful sound. Dan stubs out his cigarette on the stone floor, and wipes tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, “Shit Arin,” a spare chuckle wracks Dan’s chest before he can continue, “maybe you’re right.”

Arin stands and offers a hand to Dan, helping the other to his feet as well, “Of course I’m right, you’d be great on the radio.” As the two come to a rather natural silence, they both notice the silence exists not just within the little stockroom, but into the open bar as well. A twinge of worry guiding him to the door, Arin peeks out through a sliver to the exposed bar, Dan observes closely behind him. 

The band talks hurriedly amongst themselves atop the stage, while the cats on the dance floor murmur in a light roar that somehow conveys both displeasure and confusion. Arin feels just as confused as the crowd sounds. That's when Dan completely bypasses him and jogs up to the stage, winding his way through the guys and dolls polluting the dancefloor. He hops up onto the platform with a grace Arin thinks can only be truly divined after performing the action countless times. Arin, exits the dingy room and heads towards the dance floor, completely with the intention of offering his assistance. Nonetheless, he only gets halfway to the stage when Dan takes a microphone to address the crowd.

“Hey everybody, how are we doing tonight?” the audience claps and cheers in response, Arin settles for confused claps, “Glad to hear it,” Dan says smiling out at the audience, “However, I’m sad to inform you all that Doctor Sung has fallen ill, and he won’t be able to perform for the rest of night,” There is an uproar from the crowd, boo’s and aww’s mix to generate a highly displeased sound, “I know, I know. But we’re not quite ready for this party to be over are you?” The cheers and applause return with near thunderous force, and Arin finally understands what is going on, “My name is Danny Sexbang, and this next song is called ‘The No-Pants Dance’!”

The crowd shrieks with excitement, laughter, and surprise at the obscenities. Arin’s jaw slackens as he gazes at a seemingly new man upon the stage, bopping along to the drum beat and the swingin’ bass line. Suddenly Arin finds himself entangled in a whirlwind of dancing. The skirts of dresses swirl around his calves, and he feels quite alone. He is isolated in a sea of couples. He feels positively exposed, as if all the eyes in the joint were now trained upon him. Everyone’s judging him. He must leave, post-haste. He is about to exit the dance floor, when he finally hears Dan begin to sing:  
~~~  
“Girl nice to meet you, Would you like to let me teach you,  
All the ways I'd like to reach you, From the back of the class,”  
~~~  
Arin is unable to leave, unable to tear himself away from the melodic rush of Dan’s voice to his ears. His eyes lock onto the stage, onto Dan, onto the joy on his face. A smile so big and bright, Arin remembers only seeing such a brilliant smile when he first asked Dan to be his co-host. As a melody rushes from Dan's lips, his jacket is stripped from his slim form. He tosses the jacket behind him how a child might upon getting home from church. 

Arin is, in fact, so enamored with Dan's presence upon the stage, he almost misses the slender fingers land upon his shoulder. But he does feel them, and he turns to see a girl almost five years his junior, patiently waiting beside him, “Hey,” she smiles a glaringly white smile while her brunette eyes twinkle in the drab lighting of the club “Would you like to dance?”Arin glances up at the stage for a moment,  
~~~  
“I like the way that you dance.  
When you dance,”  
~~~  
“Okay,” Arin shrugs breathlessly, taking the girl’s blacker than black hand and slim waist in hand. Arin vaguely thinks about how gorgeous his partner is (not nearly as gorgeous as Suzy, but he pushes that thought away), she keeps her curly hair cut close to her scalp. Her cheeks seemed permanently rosy, her little button nose shone in the stage’s lighting and her lips were painted redder than a ripe strawberry. He leads her into a simple fox-trot. A good place to begin as Arin has no idea the extent of this girl’s skill or stamina, this seemed like a safe option.

She tracks his feet, and allows him to pull and push her where he wishes her to move.  
~~~  
“Your gazing eyes turned up to mine and let the sun rise.  
In the sky where I thought love could never fly anymore,”  
~~~  
Dan had removed his tie, and flung it into the audience, this received very positive feedback from the club's female population. Trying to focus on his partner rather than the man gracing the stage, Arin kicks it up a notch, twirling the girl under his arm and dipping her when their bodies re-meet.

“Hey,” she pants while spinning under Arin’s arm, “You’re pretty good!” 

She’s a good dancer herself (not nearly as good a dancer as Suzy, but he pushes that thought away). Her movements come naturally, and she moves with an air akin to Ginger Rodgers. Confidence growing, he throws her about in twirls and spins and sliding steps. A light sheen of sweat forms around her hairline the more they dance, and beads of sweat soon roll down past his own ears and onto his neck. This is the best he’s felt in a long time.

He chuckles, pulling her a little closer so they can talk easily, “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“You must be new here, I’ve never seen you in this joint before, and I ought to recognize all the regulars, I’ve been coming since I looked old enough to get served,” she laughs at this, and Arin laughs along as well. Although he finds her comment more sad than funny.

“Yeah, this is my first time in the Sacred Chalice,” It’s not really a lie, but it isn’t the complete truth.

“This singer, the guy up on the stage right now, he isn’t the usual singer.”

“Oh, really?” 

“Not that I’m complaining, he’s pretty damn good, don’t you think?”

Arin nods as they spin around each other, “He sounds great,” Arin admits. To put it lightly, the stage is that man’s bitch. He looks so exquisite and unearthly. Knowing, perhaps instinctively, exactly what the audience craves, and exactly how to give it to them. All too quickly, the song comes to a close, the audience breaks out into applause, and Arin finally lets go of his partner so the two could join in the applause. Dan takes a bow, grin spread from cheek to cheek. 

“My name’s Michelle by the way.”

Her sweet voice tears his eyes away from the stage, her hand extended, waiting. Arin smiles and gladly shakes in a late ‘hello’, “I’m Arin.”

“Well, Arin,” her smile grows wider, as she moves in to whisper into his ear, “What’s say, you and I blow this join, huh?” 

She is, no doubt, a handsome woman, and he is, no doubt, a lonely man. But he came here with a purpose, that purpose was not what she was proposing.

He leans towards her and gives a soft peck to her cheek, “I’m sorry doll, I can’t tonight.” 

She pats his face kindly, and he feels immediate embarrassment at how sweaty he is, “Maybe another time then,” her tone is wistful but not resentful. She leaves the dance floor, heading for the bar, letting her hand linger upon his face. Arin immediately mourns the loss of her warmth. 

It takes but a moment for the physical contact to be replaced. Arin is completely caught off guard by the frizzy mass of hair and lanky arms that downright engulf him in an embrace, but as soon as he smells the lingering scent of hooch and marijuana, he knows Dan has left the stage and joined him on the dance floor.

“Arin! I’ve never performed like that, did you see?” Dan exclaims, holding Arin at arm’s length.

“I watched you treat that stage like your bitch, you guys can really swing,” Arin begins, taking Dan’s elbow and leading him off the dance floor, as the remnants of the band start up a song lacking vocal accompaniment. 

“Oh my god, they’re astounding! Brian has them here almost every night he and I aren’t performing,” Arin notices Dan is no longer slurring his words, perhaps the adrenaline from performing had flushed the alcohol's effects from his system. Something like that, “And I did a lot of thinking up on stage. I’ll do it.”

Arin stops, and turns towards Dan, “What?”

“The show, I’ll do it.” Dan smiles, but Arin smiles wider. It is now his turn to embrace the man before him.

“Thank you,” Arin whispers into his chest, as a tremendous weight seems to lift from his own. Arin doubts his words reach Dan’s ears, as their surroundings are much louder than his own voice. But perhaps Dan understood anyway, as he returned the embrace, wrapping his arms around Arin’s shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own, nor do I claim to own the lyrics to The No-Pants Dance, it's just a super groovy jam :)


	10. Sexy, Uninhibited, and Self-Assured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You've gotta kick it up a notch, If you're ever gonna reach your goal  
> You can't sit around and watch, Your destiny is in your control"  
> -Pincher, Kick it Up a Notch (2011)

The door bursts open in a dreadful frenzy. The wood slams against the back wall with a force akin to that of a raging matador, forcing the door to a fully open position. To punctuate the disruptive entrance a wad of envelopes is smashed upon her desk.

“What the-?” Holly exclaims, looking up to see who would dare to disturb her secretarial work environment. 

The sweaty face of a mailman meets her eyes. He smells very similar to how he appears. Panting, he tries to squeak out an explanation. She subconsciously picks up the envelopes and stands from her seat, with a creeping suspicion that she might know what is going on. 

“...delivery...Arin...Han,” he exhales greatly. This is all Holly needs to hear. A quick glance at the clock tells her the mailman’s haste was not all for naught. With an obscenity mumbled under her breathe she sprints for the stairs hoping the boys were not ahead of schedule.

…

“One day, I was walking down the street, I met a guy named Carl,” Arin improvises, skillfully avoiding the green death spiraling towards him as Dan chuckles to himself, “Carl was nice because he gave me some ice cream...And-“ As Arin stutters on his story, he misses a dodge and receives a ball to the face. “Ahhh!” He screams falling to his knees as Dan proceeds to laugh his head off.

“This concludes our segment: Arin improvises monologues and dodges balls thrown by Dan,” Dan proclaims into the microphone in between laughs. Arin stands and regains his composure, approaching his own microphone, as his partner speaks. 

“For our lovely listeners, as promised, since I have lost, I will submit to my due punishment. Dan, what must I do?”

“I think, you should take on the perilous responsibility of reading today’s fan letter,” Dan says, looking around the room for their daily mail. Dan shoots Arin a wide-eyed panicked expression.

“Uhh… well, Dan, that doesn’t sound like much of a punishment,” Arin stalls, looking over desks and piles of papers, when they hear a light tapping on the glass window that looks out into the office area. There Holly stands, envelopes in hand, looking rather pissed. First to move, Dan runs to the door and fetches the letters, “I mean, reading the critiques and compliments from our audience members is sincerely one of the best parts of my day,” Arin continues bumping his gums while Dan frantically shuffles through the envelopes trying to find a promising one. Holly looks on as they struggle under the pressure with a firm smirk upon her lips, “And I would encourage any audience member to send your letters to 1701 Evergreen Terrace, here in sunny Los Angeles,” Arin feels a piece of paper thrust into his open palm, as Dan gives him the thumbs up to proceed. The magic of radio, at it again, “But now, we hear from Edgar Winstead. Well, isn’t that just a lovely name?”

“The loveliest,” Dan chimes in, back behind his own microphone.

“He says he’s been listening for a few weeks now, well thank you for your patronage Edgar. And uhh… He actually has a question for you Dan.”

“Is that right?”

“He wants to know what your occupation was before you got into the radio business.”

“What a neat question, as that segues into what I was just going to talk about. Before I worked in radio, I primarily performed with my band NSP.”

“Wow, how interesting Dan, my friend Dan. I wish I could hear this incredible sounding band you have,” Arin smirks raising an expectant brow.

“Well let me give you the low down, next Friday on a very special installment of The D-Club, NSP will be performing, live for a portion of the show.”

“Incredible!” Arin exclaimed, “Well listeners, be sure to tune in Thursday to hear the critically acclaimed band NSP. Signing off, I am Arin Hanson-“

“And I’m Dan Lee. This has been The D-Club. Bye lovelies.” 

Arin pulled the plug from their studio’s circuit board disconnecting them from their broadcast, “Holly’s still out there, we’re gonna get a fucking ear-full.” Arin exhales scratching his head, shuffling his chin length hair about as he does so, “I never did ask you, where did you come up with that last name?” Arin inquires, powering off the broadcasting equipment in their little studio.

“Oh,” Dan smiles, revisiting the envelopes he had abandoned in the hurry to give one to Arin, “Well there is this insane bass player I had the pleasure of meeting while I was with The Southern Blues, and I don’t know. He always stuck with me.”

“Aww, you guys sound perfect for each other,” Arin mocks putting on a pouty face.

“Oh, go soak your head,” Dan retorts, not being able to hide his laughs behind his faux anger.

They exit the booth together, both silently dreading what Holly would have to say to them. 

“Hi boys,” she adopts a sickeningly sweet voice, her hands clasped firmly behind her. 

“Hey, Holly…” Arin searches for how best to divert this conversation, “Is that a new skirt?”

“Save it, Hanson. If your stupid fucking fan mail segment makes me run up a flight of stairs one more goddamn time,” she maintains her sweet tone of voice slowly, and predatorily advancing on the pair of them, “I swear, I will shove my pretty little high-heeled foot straight up your ass . You got me?” She looks between the two of them.

“We dig it,” Dan nods, trying to give her a kind smile. It’s not very effective. She turns on her heels and struts towards the door. Holly has proven herself to be the most dangerous breed of female: sexy, uninhibited, and self-assured. As the door swings closed behind her, the pair let out a collective sigh of relief.

“She is scary sometimes,” Dan relates, walking to and immediately plopping down into a wooden chair in the office. He continues to separate the envelopes into piles for himself, piles for Arin and a pile addressed to the both of them.

“Tell me about it,” Arin mumbles. Walking behind his desk he rummages through his top drawers, searching for a pen he soon would discover does not exist, at least in the vicinity of his desk, “so Dan, I’ve been meaning to run something by you,” Arin looks up briefly to see his partner pulling on his blazer, and smoothing out the creases. Dan nods at Arin, proving his attention to be with his co-host, “well, I just think the show could be so much more than it is at this point in time,” Arin begins, walking out from behind his desk to pace the room, his creative energy imploring him to move about the space, “I mean, we’ve got good viewership, but nothing like Jack Benny, or Abbott and Costello, or Red Skelton. I’ve been thinking that perhaps what we’re missing is a writer!”

“Really?” Dan asks, placing his hat neatly upon his unruly hair.

“Sure, I mean, lots of their content is practiced and pre-determined. I think if we pepper in some more prepared stuff along with the usual improvised segments, we could really give this town a run for its money.”

“How are you gonna find a writer?” Dan asks now holding Arin’s coat out for him to put on.

“I was thinking we could announce it on the show,” Arin begins sliding his arms into the coat sleeves, "have people submit stuff through the mail, that way you and I will have direct contact with this person. We won’t have to go through management or any of that horseshit,” Arin explains, picking up the pile of mail closest to him, along with his hat.

Dan nods along, “I like it.”

Arin claps in excitement, “Sweet. I’m so glad to hear you say that,” Arin admits leading the way from the office to the stairwell, “So, what’s on the agenda today? What are you doing with yourself?”

“Umm…Nothing really,” Dan admits. He was honestly just planning on staying in and doing a little songwriting.

“I ask because- I just realized that I’ve known you for, months now, and I have never invited you over to my place, we have never gotten the chance to just, hang out. You know?”

Dan smiles, he sincerely believed Arin had no interest in spending time with him outside of the recording sessions, so to hear he wanted to spend time with him for pleasure was refreshing, “Oh, okay. Tonight?” Dan asks while they begin descending the station’s staircase.

“Would that be okay? I mean, if you’re not doing anything else,” Arin clarifies.

Dan thinks for a moment, he’s been dying to get to know, really know his co-host for months. Arin lives in a perpetual cocoon surrounding his emotions and more personal side that Dan’s just been itching to crack open, “That sounds great Arin.”

“Good,” Arin smiles, pushing open the double doors into the lobby, “So, how about I make you dinner? Come over around 6:30?”

“Sure, sounds good,” Dan confirms, as they exit the building and enter into the oppressive UV rays from the California sun.


	11. Arin's Monday Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Now I've got a belly-full, You can be my sugar-baby  
> You can be my honey-chile, yes” -Queen, March of the Black Queen (1974)

Dan knocks on Arin’s front door at 6:10. He skeptically looks over the apartment before him, was this Arin’s? Had he mistakenly knocked on the wrong front door? What would he say to the owners if it were the wrong apartment? Maybe he should just run for it now. He teeters from one foot to another, anxiously bouncing his knees. The door swings open and a sweet aroma emits from the house; hitting Dan square in the nose as a boxer might hit his opponent. The scent is familiar and foreign all at the same time, a new twist on an old classic. It immediately puts all his worries to bed. Arin stands before him with his hair tied back and a stained white apron hugging his waist. He looks so domestic, like a housewife. Or something.

“Someone’s early,” Arin teases, placing a hand sarcastically on his hip as he mock-scolds his friend.

“I was a little nervous, so I got here early. But, I did bring you this,” Dan holds out a bottle of red wine, which Arin takes and examines. 

“Woah! Thanks Dan,” Arin smiles leading his guest into the house. While he reads over the label in awe, Dan helps himself to a visual tour of his friend’s living space. It proves to be a fairly bare bones setup. Arin has a leather couch with pouffy looking cushions and a cathedral radio on the side table in the living room. The space above Arin’s fireplace and a bookshelf across the way prove to be the two main items of genuine personality in the apartment. Dan finds the bookshelf riddled with books full of poetry, philosophy and classic literature. This surprises Dan as Arin had never mentioned much about books or reading, or anything of the sort. Dan picks up a volume of short stories by Poe and is delighted to see Arin had pressed some flowers on the page where the poem ‘Annabel Lee’ began.

“This is a good bottle,” Arin interrupts Dan’s thoughts, “Brian?”

Dan carefully puts the book back, “Yep. I said ‘only the finest bottle will do’ and he gave me this. Supposedly this bottle came over on a ship from France.”

Arin looks impressed, “Wow, we’re getting the Wecht treatment tonight,” he chuckles returning to the kitchen. Dan continues his snooping, turning to the mantle about the fireplace. Arin had left a few doodles and even some flip books up here, Dan thinks they might be his keepsakes from Arin’s time at Fleischer Studios. There is an assortment of tin toys. A soldier, who when wound up beats a snare drum, a motorbike with a handsome sidecar that runs in circles and an alien saucer that spins like a top. A small loose picture is propped against the back of the mantel as well. The picture displays a man and a woman smiling wide and standing alongside a horse, where atop sits a teen-aged Arin. Dan smiles wide and picks up the photo to examine the faces of who he assumes are Arin’s parents. Arin has his father’s smile, and his mother’s kind eyes. He carefully replaces the photo. There are other knick-knacks scattered around, three porcelain cats, a clock that is five minutes slow and a small pot with some bamboo growing in it. The most curious object Dan spots has to be the centerpiece. It is a framed photograph. It must have been expensive to get done, there is even a vignette around the subject. The photograph is of a woman. Dressed in black with shiny ebony hair. She smiles a toothy grin from behind the glass. Her little upturned nose shines from whatever the light source may have been. Her eyes shimmer. She is beautiful. Dan picks up the picture to examine her more closely.

“Hey Arin! Who’s this girl in the photo?” Dan asks beginning to walk back to the kitchen. There’s a bit of a clatter, as if something had been dropped. Arin meets Dan before he can step foot in the kitchen.

Arin eyes the frame in Dan’s hands, “That is very important to me,” Arin takes the frame from Dan rather gently and replaces it upon the mantle.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” Dan apologizes. He clasps his hands together behind his back, not really knowing how to gauge Arin’s reaction.

“You didn’t know,” Arin dismisses, waving his hand, “That’s my wife Suzy.” 

“Oh,” Dan continues perking up at this development. How had such an important person to his co-host never come up in conversation before, “She is very beautiful.”

Arin nods, “Yes. Yes, she certainly was,” Arin’s hand drifts to his chest, “She died about ten months ago.”

Dan felt his stomach fall slightly, his neck grows red hot with embarrassment, “Oh god Arin. I’m sorry,” Dan steps closer and places a hand on Arin’s shoulder trying to atone for his clumsiness.

Arin’s eyes grow shiny and he chuckles. Turning away from Dan he heads back to the kitchen, “Do you wanna come help me finish this or do you just wanna stand around and look at all my shit?”

Arin’s sheer will to make the awkwardness fade does the trick. Within a few minutes they go back to joking around, while Arin instructs Dan on how to finish their dinner.

Together they set the table and dish out servings for each other. Their meal consists of baked noodles, with tomato sauce, and mushrooms. Better known as: Arin’s Monday Surprise.

“Thank you again Arin, for having me over for dinner. It’s been a while since I’ve had a meal that wasn’t leftover soup,” Dan chuckles stuffing some more noodles into his mouth.

“It’s my pleasure,” Arin smirks raising his glass full of wine and takes a generous sip.

The conversation stalls. One waits for the other to start talking. The emptiness of the air evaporates any ideas for conversation. Clearing his throat Arin is first to break the silence, “So Dan, is there a special lady in your life?”

Dan smirks. Eyes drifting down to his plate, “Umm, no. Can’t say there is. Unless you count my mom and my sister.”

“Oh yeah, how’re the girlies?” Arin adds, shuffling the food around on his plate.

“Actually, I don’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve helped out at the kitchen. I usually get home after the dinner rush has ended, mom and Dana force some soup on me while I try to write until I fall asleep on my work,” Dan goes through his evening routine. 

“That sounds… terrible,” Arin admits.

“It’s not! Not at all. I’m a lucky guy,” Dan clarifies, “It’s just that I miss them, I used to be around them, all day, every day. So, just seeing less of them, it’s… well it’s different.”

“I can understand that,” Arin relates. Dan sips his wine.

Their evening continues as such. They shoot the shit and enjoy their meal. They awkwardly pause, they laugh. They tell stories, they ask questions. As they finish their dinner, Dan begins to clean up his dishes but Arin shakes his head at him.

“What are you doing? No guest of mine will be made to clean up,” Arin swipes the dishes from Dan’s hands and heads to the sink.

“I appreciate that, but can I at least put the rest of the food away?” Dan asks already heading towards the icebox with the dish in hand, “Because honestly I don’t wanna be a load or anything.”

“No, Dan!”

But he had already opened the icebox to find it empty. No milk, no bread. No anything. 

Dan slowly slides the tray onto the top rack, closes the door and turns. Arin is tense. His hands are clenched and his shoulders are bunched close to his ears.

“Arin, we didn’t just eat all of your food did we?” Dan asks, eyebrows raised.

Arin’s cheeks grow furiously rosy, “I mean- I wasn’t. I…” he is unable to come up with a plausible excuse, “I just wanted to do something nice for you, and make a good impression,” he admits, not able to look Dan in the face.

Dan is shocked into silence, mouth slightly open.

“God I’m so embarrassed,” Arin rubs his forehead, closing his eyes.

“No, no! Arin, don’t be,” Dan approaches, “I understand, but you honestly didn't have to do all this for me. I don’t need impressing. I’m the easiest person in the world to please, honestly. Arin’s Monday Surprise is the most luxurious thing I’ve eaten all month,” this entices a chuckle from Arin, “So this was honestly wonderful. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” Arin returns, finally meeting Dan’s gaze. They hold each other captive for but a moment. Arin sees real compassion there, real caring. Dan clearly meant every word he had just uttered. Holding that eye contact, Dan reaches out to squeeze Arin’s hand. A frog replaces Arin’s heart, surely, that could be the only explanation as to why the beating in his chest grew so erratic. 

“Let me pay for the food,” Dan finally utters. Reaching back for his wallet.

“Stop it,” Arin insists, “just let me do this nice thing for you.”

“Are you sure?” Dan asks. 

“Positive. But, the next dinner’s on you then,” Arin jokes, returning to clean up the kitchen.

“Well then, get ready for some fucking leftover soup,” Dan mutters, draining the last of the wine from his glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank you guys for commenting and giving kudos.   
> It's honestly a big motivator to write more :)


	12. Don’t Threaten Me With a Good Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No liquor left on the shelf,  
> I should probably introduce myself”  
> -Panic! At the Disco, Don’t Threaten Me with a Good Time (2016)

Dan’s incessant giggles drift through the hand lightly covering his mouth. His eyes crinkle to a close, “What’s- what’s the worst thing your parents have ever caught you doing?” Dan asks, drawing a breathe through his half-finished cigarette.

The two sit on the floor the bottle of wine long since gone. They had moved onto Dan’s personal flask of much harsher gin which he bragged was the finest quality alcohol this side of the Mississippi. To justify their insistent drinking they concocted a game they named Truth or Drink. Fairly self-explanatory, one player is asked a question and must either tell the truth or take a shot of the disgustingly strong booze.

Arin chuckles and reaches for the flask.

Dan laughs as Arin winces at the harshness of the hooch, “woah Arin! What’s so bad you can’t tell me?” 

Arin’s mind briefly wanders to the incident in which his father had caught him in the bathroom trying on a pair of his sister’s pantyhose, “guess you’ll never know now,” Arin attests wiping his chin with the back of his hand and setting the flask back between them, “Okay, Dan.”

“Yessir,” Dan slightly slurs, saluting his friend with his first two fingers.

“What is the most embarrassed you’ve ever been in public?” Arin quirks up an eyebrow.

A very subdued part of Dan’s conscious mind tells him to just take the drink and move on, that sharing that story would not do anyone any good. However, a larger more impulsive part of him wants to trust Arin, wants to give Arin a real chance to know him. After a few seconds that impulsive part of him wins, “well,” Dan begins combing hair out of his face with his fingers, “when I was younger, I was invited to sing at a festival for my town.”

“Oh god,” Arin chuckles scooching across his hardwood floor so the two were closer.

“Yeah, umm,” Dan scratches his forehead, working out the best way to say this in his very muddled state of mind, “some of my classmates weren’t too thrilled that a Jew was singing at the festival.”

Arin’s smile falls flat on the floor. His expression changes rapidly from amused to uneasy.

“And, umm. They threw raw pork at me while I was on stage-“ Dan cuts off pulling a new cigarette from his coat pocket and lighting its tip, immediately taking a quick puff, “and they put a sign on my back that said ‘unkosher kike’, you know.” 

Dan looks up at Arin not entirely knowing what to expect, he finds pity in his friend’s eyes. Arin lowers his head and exhales deeply shaking his head, “Holy fuck dude.”

Dan nods lips pressed tightly together, “Yea, that was probably the worst day of my life, honestly.”

“I can’t imagine what that must have done to you. It’s incredible you can even get up on a stage after that.”

Dan chuckles and shakes his head, “it’s funny that you say that, because I can’t really.”

Arin squints at Dan, not catching his meaning, “I don’t follow.”

Dan shrugs lazily between drags, “I can’t go on stage unless I’m… how should I say- inebriated.”

Arin raises his eyebrows, “Is that right?”

The concern in Arin’s face annoys Dan, “Yeah but, it’s not like a huge deal or anything. I can still perform well when I’m in a state, it just helps with the nerves of getting up on stage.”

“I understand,” Arin nods along, feeling very saddened by the reality his friend was living. But Dan’s immediate defensiveness around the topic told him he was not in any sort of mood to discuss it.

A few moments of silence drift between them. The radio lilts out a jazzy melody. The moon illuminates the floorboards in an icy glow. Arin notices how the light makes Dan’s eyes sparkle. 

Dan clears his throat and sits up straight, regaining his previously abandoned posture, Arin feels too groggy to tear his eyes away from his friend “Arin, will you teach me how to dance?”

Arin chuckles, securing some loose strands of shiny hair behind an ear, “you sure know how to divert a conversation.”

“I’m serious,” Dan insists.

“That’s not really a truth or drink type question,” Arin sasses, vaguely wondering why Dan would want to learn how to dance.

“Sure it is,” Dan dismisses standing and dragging Arin along with him, “show me what you were doing that night at the Sacred Chalice.”

Arin’s face grows warm. Dan had been watching him dance? Had Dan’s eyes darted to him briefly that night? Or was he unable to stop his eyes from drifting to Arin? Had he been as captivated by Arin’s dancing, as Arin had been by his singing? Regardless, Dan takes Arin’s right hand in his own, and places his left upon Arin’s waist. Their hips remain about an inch apart, and Arin can feel Dan’s warm breath on his face. Yanked from his thoughts and into the present, Arin’s ears work in overtime to locate the down-beat fluttering through the air around them.

“Okay, so- we’ll do a basic rock-step to start,” Arin begins, starting to lead Dan to sway in time to the rhythm. He allows himself to make brief eye contact with Dan, but finds his friend’s eyes closed. A smile gracing his clean-shaven face. Arin feels his heart leap.

As Arin verbalizes the steps that compose a very basic swing dance, Dan opens his eyes and watches Arin’s feet. After a few attempts the two manage a basic rock-step pattern, and Arin feels comfortable enough to lead Dan into some more complex moves. The two become one with the music. Their movements begin to flow the way a river might. Babbling and bending across the country side, so did the pair around Arin’s living room. When the song came to an end, so too did their movements. Both were slightly out of breath but smiling. Neither let go of the other, their eyes locked and Arin allowed himself to become lost in the brief glimpse he got of Dan’s soul.

Dan smiles at Arin, “I feel like, this was meant to be. Our meeting, our show, our... friendship. How could it be coincidence that we happen to come into each other’s lives right when we need each other? Well, I-I mean, I really needed someone like you right when you walked into my life. I don’t wanna speak for you, but that’s just what I thought,” he rambles between breaths, finally letting go of Arin’s hand and waist.

“No, I know what you mean. When Jon left I felt so fucking alone. He was there for me all through the... stuff with Suzy. He was my rock during that really horrible time. So when he left I was really a mess,” Arin admits, folding his legs so he’s sat Indian-style on the floor, “I try not to feel too sorry for myself, but…” Arin cuts off wiping his face with the back of his hand, hoping Dan thinks he’s wiping away sweat and not tears, “It just feels like everybody’s left me. As if I’m always losing people. My wife, my best friend...”

Arin sees Dan putting his cigarette out with a lick to his fingers and a pinch to the cigarette’s glowing tip as he inches closer. Dan reaches a hand and starts to rub Arin’s back. The heat off of Dan’s hand is a nice contrast to the cool creeping up his spine.

Dan joins Arin on the floor. Sitting with his knees folded beneath him, he sets himself down directly in front of Arin, “Arin. I’ll always be here for you. No matter how bad that thing you did in front of your dad was.”

Arin burst out laughing and was joined quickly by Dan. Their laughs mingle together in the air above and around them, creating a temporary cloud of joy fully encompassing the pair. When the laughs subside, Arin locks eyes with Dan. The smiles caused by their giggle session remain a ghost upon both of their mouths. Their eyes meet and Arin admits, “when I was sixteen my Dad caught me in the bathroom wearing a skirt and pantyhose,”

Dan’s smile fades, “what happened,” he asks eyes boring into Arin as he leans in slightly closer. 

Arin inhales lightly and whispers, “he beat the shit out of me.”

Arin’s words are trapped by Dan’s mouth gliding onto his. As soon as it occurred it was over and they were back to gazing into each other's eyes. Arin’s jaw was slack, not entirely sure of what was happening. Taking Arin’s silence as permission to continue Dan grazed another kiss across Arin’s lips. This time breaking the magic spell which had stunned Arin into immobility. Arin returns the embrace, a hand sliding through Dan’s hair. Arin can feel Dan’s lips quirk into a smile as he leans in closer, their chests flush against each other. Arin’s brain is running in a million different directions, most campaigning for the end of this- this- whatever it is and a return to normalcy. But Dan is shifting closer to him and the heat radiating off another person is a sensation he hasn’t experienced in months. Hasn’t experienced since-.

Arin jerks away, his hand moving from Dan’s hair to his chest. Keeping him at an arm’s length. He inhales shallowly before sputtering, “I can’t Dan. I can’t do this right now.”

Dan’s brow furrows, before he whispers, “wait- what? Why?”

It was a simple and fair question that Arin could not answer, his hand recoils from Dan’s chest back in on himself, Arin just shakes his head lightly and sighs.

Dan’s hurt and confusion morph into a mask of stoicism. He clears his throat and retrieves his flask, “maybe I should go now.”

“Dan, you don’t have to go home you’re smashed,” Arin reasons as Dan tries to stand, wavering heavily on his feet. 

“I’ll manage,” Dan replies, retrieving his coat and hat from around the room, “I’ll see you in the office tomorrow Hanson.” 

Arin feels the bite of being called by his last name straight in the middle of his chest, “Okay, well.. by-”

Arin’s farewell is cut off by the slamming of his own front door. And with that the tall dark figure of his best friend was lost in the pitch black night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is on a temporary hiatus as I try to figure out where his story is going haha  
> Thank you for all being so kind in your comments  
> <3


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